Tear You Down
by Villain
Summary: 1918, a year after America joined in the First World War. When one of Colonel Stan Marsh's men - Major Kenneth McCormick - goes down behind enemy lines it's up to fighter pilot Kyle Broflovski to retrieve him. But when he falls into the clutches of the mysterious Bloody General, it's a race against time to stay alive… and out of the General's bed. Kyman, Cartman/Kyle, hints of K2
1. Chapter 1

A/N:This story is the result of a reader's vote over on tumblr. The people wanted Kyman, so Kyman they shall have! This particular plot has been in the works for a long time, so I'm very excited to finally get it posted. XD

The primary pairing of this story is Kyman, but if you've read my stuff before you know I can't resist multiple pairings in a chaptered story, so beware. There will be hints of K2. Enjoy!

…

**TEAR YOU DOWN**

**Chapter One: Early to Bed and Early to Rise Makes a Man Healthy, Wealthy, and Wise**

At night in the barracks, the air thick with the heady smell of sweat and male bodies, the soldiers spoke of sex. They spoke of beautiful women like graceful sirens waiting to take them into their embrace. Voices wracked with yearning, they described red lips and trembling thighs. According to these young men no greater pleasure existed than the carnal act of sex.

Lying awake while listening to the urgent whispers traded in the quiet dark Kyle kept his dissent to himself. He couldn't blame his fellows for their ignorance. _But what was sex compared to flying, careening through the air with a terrible weapon thrumming between your legs. The raw human guilt that washed over you when you turned an enemy into a rolling ball of fire._ Kyle had dropped men to their deaths.

He tossed and turned in his sleep. Kyle didn't want the biting miserable cold creeping in beneath the canvas walls. He didn't care about the pranks cadets pulled on the blackshoes, or the pretty nurses in their entirely too neat uniforms. All he cared about was flying, falling, alive under the spell of the icy winds tearing at his hair, subdued by the smooth design of his Sopwith.

Swallowing down a dry throat, Kyle reached down to trails frostbitten fingers along his growing erection.

The others could keep their red-lipped sirens.

Wrapping his fingers around the core of his heat, Kyle sighed and rolled his hips.

He had the sky.

And he'd never let it go.

…

Acrid smoke poured down from the blackened sky, dragged down by heavy rain that struck like bee stings. Scrambling shapes tangled together below the angry lines of planes, the sharp _rat-tat-rat-tat_ of their guns tearing the air with ugly violence.

_Hell on earth_, Kyle thought, suspended in a moment of morbid clarity as the clouds opened below him and he saw the writhing masses; muddy, faceless golems engaged in endless struggle. His body was long since numb from hovering in his icy perch, the stabbing cold having seeped through the body of his fighter plane gliding along the choppy currents of air. Deadly metal birds, a mix of Allies and Central machines, spun wildly around him in a death dance. Some would crumple; fall. Others would burst. Flashes of fire wove orange threads of sparks and debris as a British fighter took down an Austrian plane, his accent crackling over the airways and momentarily filling Kyle's cold cockpit with life. It was short-lived, his heart clenching as a German plane, one of the newest models and frighteningly fast, swung up like a reaper's scythe to chop the Englishmen out of the sky in a ball of fire sent crashing over the poor souls fighting on the ground. Closing his eyes, Kyle murmured quietly comforting nonsense as he pushed his girl harder, arcing up dangerously close to the summit on dirty gray mountains of fog. There was nothing more he wanted than to go to his men. He was their captain, yet he had his orders. Swinging gracefully away as a grunting Austrian carrier chugged past, he rolled his shoulders and ignored the strain of his eyes behind his smudged goggles. This was no time to be human. Not when he, Captain Kyle Broflovski of the United States Allied Front, had been given the task of slaying a dragon.

The Bloody General.

No one knew any information aside from his name and the devastation he left in his wake. Stan – Colonel Marsh Kyle distractedly reminded himself – thought the Bloody General was more than one man; a unit of Central leaders, but Kyle knew different. There was no telling how or why, but he could _feel_ it. The Bloody General was one man. Just a man. He refused to see him as anything different, despite the abject horror his evil inspired among the Allied Forces.

It was that fearlessness that had earned Kyle the title of Ace, after countless missions straight into enemy territory, after a series of impossible victories winged his name across allied airways. According to Kenny – the daredevil parachuting Major nearly as infamous as Kyle for his escapades – Kyle had a nasty temper that gave him the courage of a lion. The redhead found he couldn't deny it. He wouldn't be half as brave if he weren't so furious. At the war, at the enemy, and at the Bloody General looming over the entire world like a vengeful spirit. When Stan had recruited him, asked him to fly with a worried expression half hoping Kyle would refuse, the Captain had vowed to be the light that vanquished the Bloody General's shadow. The Arrow, they called him, for he always flew true and struck soundly. It was too bad being a living legend couldn't cure him of the bitter cold hollowing out his bones.

Isolation was wearing him down, knowing that to use his radio for an outward signal meant he'd be revealed to the enemy, and stealth was key on this mission. Though it was agony to sit by in his Sopwith F1 Camel, affectionately called Rosie, and watch his brothers-in-arms fighting valiantly for their lives. All so their Captain, the Ace-Arrow-Lionheart, could creep close enough to take a shot at the Bloody General's flying fortress flying somewhere among the castles of clouds.

Seen by few but known by all, the monstrous zeppelin, Colossus, had been a dark storm on the horizon since nearly two years ago. Rising into the sky, carrying the Bloody General's tyrannous name with it, the zeppelin defied every law of physics as if driven by hateful demons. Word was that its shade was black as pitch, sleek and smooth as a minnow moving through still water. The caravan attached to its massive belly was as big as a ship, made from light-as-air metal painted deep dark red. And at the mast was a Medusa, her serpent tresses framing a frightening face with yellow eyes and a long black tongue.

Who was to say these things were true, but Kyle's feline nature had been seduced. He wanted to see her, stare Medusa straight in the eyes before he sent custom bullets into the floating beast's vulnerable sides. Then he would find the corpse of the Bloody General and reveal him in his mortality. It had become a desperate need. If Kyle could see that the Bloody General was human, then he would know that this war could end. The blood would stop being spilled. The mud would stop sucking the life out of their limbs, and the cold would dissipate.

"C'mon, Rosie," he murmured, fighting to keep his teeth from rattling. He could see the sheets of ice coating his wings and Kyle was about to dip back below the cloud line when he saw several narrow planes – German stealth fighters – twisting through the fog to spear into the ongoing fray.

His hands slipped on the controls and Rosie rocked beneath him before Kyle caught his breath and cursed. There. Exactly like seagulls foreshadowing the approach of some ocean vessel, the German fighters were a haunting preamble to the slow arc of impossible girth floating up through the clouds. White mist slipped off the sides of shining black metal, and the redhead's jaw dropped when the rust red caravan crested the skyline and suddenly the entire thing was before him, hovering like a god over the clouds, remaining unseen by the soldiers below.

There was a glint of light reflecting the dying rays of the sun – a telescope! Kyle bit out another curse as he gave through a sharp nosedive into a thick meadow of clouds. He stayed behind the freezing off-white veil and tried to bring his breathing under control. The cold grew more intense, and the air ached in his lungs. Peeking through the sleeves of his fingerless leather gloves, Kyle clenched hands itched by frostbite, the fragile flesh beneath his bitten nails a chilling edge into blue.

He needed to fly. He needed to shoot. He needed to ground the Colossus and bring the Bloody General to earth.

Even if he died in the process.

Clenching his teeth, Kyle gunned the engine, pushing Rosie to her max until the buzzing propellers, hushed by the thick clouds, spun free to cut through the air with a deafening whine. And green eyes grew wide behind thick goggles when Kyle realized the Colossus was nearly on him, blotting out the sun and gliding in a near-silent way that was terrifying. With no idea how the thing had covered so much distance in such a short time, Kyle jerked the controls over and went into a wild spin. But the clouds were suddenly bristling with the shape of German fighters, swooping up beneath him in a rising tide.

"Damn it!" he yelled, slamming his fist into the dashboard as the first round of clacking slugs ripped at his sides. "Shit!" Swinging away with a strained drone as the engine struggled against the cold, Kyle had to slam into another gut-wrenching twirl when he was cut off by another flank of planes. It took another slough of bullets for him to realize that they weren't trying to hit him. His heart pounded with a different brand of adrenaline as the Captain realized the planes were herding him towards the zeppelin. He gritted his teeth and charged the line of planes, his ears ringing with the combined thunder of their propellers masking his own. But a line of direct fire caught his propeller and his heart stopped as Rosie's front burst with chips of wood – the two propeller's on his front had been reduced to one, fluttering pieces of wood scattering the air and Kyle struck blindly at the controls, flattening his hands over the firing pedals. A flurry of heavy shots rocketed from his dying plane's hull, slamming violently into the German lines, ripping into them like teeth into flesh. He sobbed with frustration; those had been specially designed for Colossus.

The sensation of falling didn't reach him until Kyle's entire world slipped sideways, the neat row of black machines skewed as Rosie's remaining propeller shuddered to a halt. Up this high the wind was strong enough to dance him like a marionette, spinning in a dizzying spiral that shook his hands from the parachute fastened to the back of his seat. Whistling wind tore at the topless barrier of glass surrounding the cockpit as he worked the pane aside, distantly wondering why there weren't more shots. Where was the killing blow?

Wriggling free of his seat and threading his arms made thick by the heavy leather coat through the straps of the bag, Kyle froze with his eyes straight ahead. There was a long black line leading from the front of the Colossus. Time slowed into strangely jagged pieces. Wind currents kept him afloat, as if on a palm that was offering him up. And headed straight for him was what looked like a harpoon. Following the flinging line to its source, Kyle saw the snarling open mouth, the fierce yellow eyes, and the tendrils of serpents arched aggressively outward. Medusa.

The Sopwith nearly snapped in half when the harpoon struck it, hooking deep into the metal exterior. Kyle was thrown back into the cockpit, the wind knocked out of him. There was an abrupt dip that sent his lungs into his throat, and then a shattering redirection that nearly broke his neck. The Captain belatedly realized he was being hauled in slowly like a fish on the line.

He fought against the sparking dashboard and crushed over-wing. Greatly burdened by the heaviness of his coat and sheepskin-lined leather boots reaching high up his thighs, Kyle had to pull himself up bodily by his arms alone. The whistling wind poured over his bare face, leeching beneath the flaps of his worn green ushanka and leather balaclava. He managed on an uplifting gust of wind to lurch back into his seat. "Sorry, girl," he whispered, pausing only to press his hand to the tiny rose Kenny had carved into the side panel once the plane had been christened. With another nauseating tilt to his reality, Kyle crawled towards the window but had to flinch back when he found stinking strips of gasoline trickling from the fuel tank. His eyes shot to the sparking dashboard then back to the flammable substance currently draining all over his plane and him. Frantic, the pilot threw his body against the glass, jammed back by the initial impact and leaving less than half the room he needed to get through and make a jump for it. With the concaved upper wing he couldn't vault over the side of the cockpit; effectively he was trapped.

The front of the Sopwith crumpled with a cacophony of whines and crunching. Kyle, at this point nearly hanging from the glass panes, stared in mortified shock at the giant black claw that had clutched his plane in its metal jaws. He'd never seen anything like it. The metal glinted as if newly polished, sleek and deadly like a spider pinched up tight around its prey. Creaking gears and the final pop of Rosie's hull signaled the movements before Kyle felt it, and he scrambled wildly as gasoline slicked the glass beneath his fingers and stung his nasal passage while it soaked over his skin and into his uniform. All but blind while confined in the wreck of his plane, Kyle only now recognized that he was practically up against the prow of the caravan riding the belly of the gigantic zeppelin. And there - as he slipped back to feel for his pistol – looking past the claw, up beyond the line of the harpoon and Medusa's horrible face, he saw a figure standing against the wind.

His heart thundered in his chest and Kyle couldn't move. The man was dressed in all black, a shining crest nearly as big as a fist the only mark on his entire uniform. Green eyes, pupils blown with adrenaline, fixed on that crest.

The crest of a general.

Impossibly cold eyes stared down at him, less than twenty feet away. They burned with soulless regard, the low brim of his peaked visor cap drawing shadows so that they looked inhuman. A thick burgundy scarf hid the lower half of his face, but Kyle could only see those eyes that speared straight into him as sure as a knife. He didn't realize he wasn't breathing until his lungs screamed for air. And in that moment it all came rushing back: the noise, the cold, the urgency. His fingers closed around the handle of his pistol and Kyle wrenched it up-

-just as the Bloody General threw a military saber with deadly accuracy.

The tip of the blade pierced his chest, through the leather and sheepskin lining. Kyle screamed through gritted teeth, watching helplessly as the claw jerked once more, tearing the front half of the Sopwith entirely away. And then he was plummeting down again, this time alone, tossed from his aircraft like a piece of trash. Blood sprinkled the air around him, shaken from his wound by the wind. Kyle stared upwards blindly, a cry frozen on his lips as he was ripped violently from consciousness.

…

_Three months later._

Colonel Stanley Marsh pinched the bridge of his nose. "Would it have been that hard to at least scrape the mud off your face, Major?"

Major Kenneth McCormick snorted. "Don't you know the ladies at the parlor said it was good for my complexion," he drawled. Grinning at the handkerchief Stan was holding out for him, Kenny used it to scoop some of the sludge out of his ears. "Anyway, it came in handy. The _heinies_ didn't even see me breathing down their necks."

Sliding back into his chair, Stan waved off Kenny's offer to return the thoroughly soiled handkerchief. "And the documents?"

"Encoded," the Major reported, expression falling into a mild frustration. "And cleaner than me. Our boy Kip should be able to crack it." Flashing a too-white grin amidst the filth on his face, Kenny teased, "Especially if we send Kyle to deliver it to his biggest fan." Laughing at Stan's scowl, he fished the documents out to fan them across the desk. The Colonel's brow furrowed and Kenny motioned with a muddy finger, "There's one part they didn't bother to encode." Shifting uncomfortably, he didn't meet Stan's eyes as he pushed the papers closer.

Cobalt blue eyes followed the gesture and suddenly Stan's blood ran cold. Trying to still the trembling of his fingers, he bit out a curse as he read and re-read the two words emblazoned on the page, which had become an admonition of inevitable death and destruction known by all the Allied Forces. Dropping the paper Stan grabbed the telephone and roared into the canny speaker, "Rouse Officer Drordy. He should be expecting a delivery…" Glancing up at Kenny's rakish smirk he rolled his eyes and added, "And get me Captain Broflovski _on the double_."

Kenny scraped patterns into the drying dirt on the back of his hand. "Good choice."

…

Dark eyes slid slowly up the redhead's slender frame, lingering on the rounded flesh hugged tight by worn cotton trousers. Thick straps held up thigh-high boots made of caramel colored leather, framing his ass with an unjust perfection. Christophe _had _always enjoyed the unique uniforms of the airmen. The cigarette hanging from his lips angled up with the suggestive slant of his mouth as Kyle noticed his heavy gaze. Christophe gave the pilot another lazy sweep with his eyes before standing up straight from his slouched position against the wall. "_Bonjour_, Captain."

The Frenchman's presence did not bode well for anyone. Kyle narrowed his eyes. "Gregor – _Brigadier General_ sent you?"

Pushing into the smaller man's space with a measured gait, Christophe offered him a dangerous grin. "Ze_ bife_ is here himself." Green eyes registered with alarm and the Frenchman nodded solemnly. "We dredged McCormick out of a swamp on enemy lines. But not before ze fool got something good." Drawing deeply on his cigarette, he turned to see a harried looking cadet loping towards them, the boy's hand pressing down his flimsy hat against the wind. It was a constant presence outside the huge barn converted into a hanger for the American fighter planes.

Before the young officer could utter a word Kyle snatched the message out if his hand. The cadet and Christophe watched him scan the words. He dropped the telegram into the mud without a second glance and set off at a dead run, leaving the Frenchman and the cadet staring after him in bewilderment.

With an exasperated huff the cadet shook his head. "He's barely out of sick bay." Sniffing petulantly, the boy narrowed his eyes at the very slight stiffness on the right side of the agile pilot as he ran. He frowned. "Colonel Marsh shouldn't a' told him. He's a hot head."

Cuffing the kid on the side of the head without preamble, and sneering when he yelped in surprise, Christophe drawled, "Mind your tongue, _seppo_. When you're an ace like ze Captain you can run your mouth." Following Kyle's retreating figure the Frenchman slouched off, hunching against the cold outside the hanger. A familiar drone greeted him, mud flung outward by the tires of Brigadier General Gregory's convoy. Grayish light staining his hair dirty gold, the Brit looked ethereal as he swung from the automobile, face already plastered with a swashbuckling grin that might hurt a lesser man's eyes. Christophe's expression grew stormy and his famed scowl dragged down the corners of his mouth. The damn Tommy was like a human sun and Christophe the mutinous moon.

"My good man!" he trumpeted, gliding over the sloppy mud and somehow keeping his crisp black boots gleaming. Gregory clapped Christophe on the back and gave a raucous bark of laughter before he said in his clipped British accent, "That damn Yank is certainly something, isn't he? Crawled right under the Fritz noses and snatched up those articles." Dragging his disgruntled associate closer Gregory practically guffawed, "Marsh says they'll have their man work through the codes… Was it that hotheaded little Yid I saw speed through here like a holy terror?"

Pursing his lips at Gregory's word choice, Christophe murmured, "Careful Brigadier General, your colonialist is showing.

The Brit snorted good-naturedly. "You lecturing me, old chap? I do say; that's very rich."

…

The door cracked back into the flimsy wall, nearly busting off its hinges. Kenny didn't even flinch, snorting into his grainy coffee as Stan jumped, almost spilling the brew all over his pristine uniform. Slamming the mug down on the desk the Colonel snapped, "Dammit, Kyle!" A second later Stan's flustered Choctaw secretary named Nashoba burst in. His thick black hair was tied in a tight braid against the nape of his neck, and intelligent black eyes shown with annoyance beneath the olive gray of his hat.

Accent a gentle curve along the consonants in his speech, the secretary stated drily, "Captain Broflovski here to see you, Colonel."

"Where is it?" Kyle demanded. "Let me see it." Green eyes darted all over the desk hungrily. But Stan's desk was bare but for the coffee and a faded photo of his family back home in South Park. Kyle frowned, barely glancing at the frazzled secretary as the young man rolled his eyes and stomped out of the makeshift office, slamming the door shut behind him. Rounding on his friend – and his superior, whether or not he chose to acknowledge it – Kyle splayed his hands expectantly. "You called me here about word on the Bloody General, Stan."

"_Coded_ word," Kenny cut in, "We need you to get this to Officer Kip Drordy." He held up the documents and Kyle's gaze zeroed in on them.

"Why the hell did you call me in for that?" he asked, gesturing irritably. "And Kenny, you look like a mudman from one of those crummy sideshows at the circus."

"You know how Drordy is," Stan sighed. "He's got that issue; he needs to do everything in order. Counting his steps, and putting his right shoe on before his left. It's that condition he's got."

Kyle blinked, unimpressed. "And?"

"We need to convince him that this needs to be done first. That _everything_ else can wait," Stan hinted. The pilot just stared at him blankly.

"Kyle," Kenny provided happily, "Kip… he's sweet on you. So if _you_ ask him to jump, he'll ask how high." Leaning up as he tugged Kyle down by his lapels, he breathed across the redhead's cheek, "You want him, don't you… The Bloody General?"

Kyle shivered. "I want to _kill_ him," he protested weakly, trying to brush away the dried mud trailing from Kenny's touch.

"Sure," the blond purred. "But you'll need to _get_ him first." Pushing the papers into the pilot's hands, Kenny smirked. "Use your charms, Kyle."

Stan added, "We think these documents might have details on the Bloody General's next touch-down."

Kyle stiffened. "He's grounding the Colossus?"

"You tell us," Kenny shrugged, motioning to the encoded documents clutched in Kyle's hands. "Get those to Kip and get the little freak to crack 'em."

With a determined set to his jaw that made Stan slightly nervous, Kyle saluted sharply, something not entirely sane flickering in his eyes.

Looking skeptically at the clock, Kenny mumbled, "Kip won't know what hit him."

Nashoba stormed back in the office a second later, his shirtfront splattered with coffee. "Colonel," he ground out. "Permission to speak freely?"

"I'm not sure that would be wise, Corporal," Stan sighed. "I can't have you calling your superior… harsh names."

"He shoved past me," Nashoba growled. "And spilled all of my coffee." Scowling, he grumbled under his breath, "_Pilgrim_." Then he turned sharply to Kenny, looking slightly smug when the blonde flinched. Nashoba's almond-shaped eyes sparked. "Also, you left mud-prints all over the floor. I'm sure with your admirable ranking as a _Washisho_ Major you can handle a mop and _clean it up_." With a last severe look that pinned both the Colonel and the stunned blond, Nashoba turned neatly on his heel and stalked out.

"Don't upset the Missus," Kenny mumbled. "Got it."

…

Officer Kip Drordy was the space between stars: unseen, easily dismissed, and seemingly meaningless. He floated around the base like a lost child, awkward and lanky with huge brown eyes that unnerved the others with their wide-eyed naivety. Dutiful enough, he kept himself immaculate and carried out his obligations with deftness and skill that defied his outward appearance. It was entirely by accident that he became the Allied Airforce key intelligence officer, specializing in codes.

He was also, by no fault of his own, hopelessly in love with Ace Captain Kyle Broflovski.

And so it was with a look between elated joy and crushing anxiety that he greeted the stunning pilot, caught up as always in the fiery copper of his hair and the vivid green eyes peering out from a pale flawless face. Stuttering badly, and spilling his tea on the confidential documents splayed over his cramped desk quarters, Kip leapt to his feet and saluted clumsily.

"At ease," Kyle said in a clipped tone, unabashedly lifting away the sopping mess of papers on Kip's desk to deposit them in a chair. Then he turned and looked heatedly at the young soldier. Shoving the coded papers under his nose, Kyle murmured, "I need you, Officer Drordy."

The poor boy whimpered weakly, catching himself on his desk as he swayed. "A-anything, Captain," he breathed, choking when Kyle pressed into his space with shining eyes.

"These need to be priority, Kip," Kyle said urgently.

Blinking as his head cleared momentarily, Kip sputtered, "B-but we've just gotten a communication from the Eastern Front, and I'm the only Officer on duty who can speak French-"

Pressing a finger to the boy's lips and watching him melt beneath the touch, Kyle suggested sweetly, "I'll handle the Eastern Front." Glancing at the pile of documents, Kyle fluttered his eyelashes and whispered, "_Je parle français_."

Kip shivered. "O-oh."

"_Do this for me_, Kip," he said huskily in a stream of impeccable French. The officer's doe brown eyes were fixed on the redhead's mouth and a pink tongue darted out to wet thin lips. Kyle hid his smirk. "_Tout va bien_?"

"_Oui_," Kip gasped, "_Oui_!"

Kyle had the solved documents in his hands before the sun rose the next morning.

He crawled through the shoddy window into Stan's office, which also doubled as his sleeping quarters. Kyle would never get past Nashoba if he'd tried the front door. The Choctaw had it in for him as it was. So landing on silent feet, Kyle crept over to Stan's sleeping form. The trumpets calling the soldier's into morning wouldn't sear the air with their incessant baying for another hour. But Kyle couldn't wait. He'd tried to wake Kenny but the blond had thrown a boot at him, not even bothering to wake up.

"Stan," he hissed. "Stan!" Cleanly blocking the defensive fist that whipped at his head, Kyle rolled with the movement to counteract Stan's knees snapping up to crack his ribs. Chuckling, the redhead stared down into groggy blue eyes, grin widening when his childhood friend blinked.

"… Kyle? What-"

"I could kiss the little weirdo," he whispered excitedly, mindful of Nashoba sleeping on the other side of the door. "He cracked them. It's all right here!" Pushing the plans at the Colonel, he prattled on, "I figure we can depart at the end of the week. Kip wouldn't actually let me _see_ the contents." Frowning, he added, "Despite by best efforts to change his mind… But now you have them and now we can counter that damn monster-"

Stan sat up, looking down at the seal protecting the documents in a neat envelope. "Kyle," he yawned. "You know the Brigadier General will need to see these and take them to the war council. We can't just move against the Bloody General without first consulting the senior officers."

Lips pursed, Kyle sat back on his heels. "Well, not _officially_."

"Not at all," the Colonel corrected firmly. "Unless the Bloody General is landing tomorrow we'll have at least a week before strategy is even discussed. We'll have to double check the contents with our moles, and other intelligence staff in the Allies."

"Meanwhile, a war is being fought," the pilot grumbled.

Stan arched an eyebrow, "Yes, Captain. Just make sure you're fighting the _right_ war."

Kyle opened his mouth to retort when a groused looking Nashoba opened the door and announced tiredly, "Brigadier General for you, sir." When he saw Kyle his eyes narrowed and he scowled with renewed energy. "I'm going to put a chain on that window," he promised the redhead mulishly. "I'd swear the rats learn their tricks from you."

"Corporal Nashoba," Stan pleaded. "Show the General in, please?"

With one last glare at the pilot, which was returned with equal ire, Nashoba stepped aside and Stan's small office was filled with the overwhelming presence of Brigadier General Gregory. Beside him Christophe was smoking a thin cigarette, dark circles pronounced around his eyes. He winced when the secretary powered up the lights and hunched his shoulders.

"I won't comment on this rather queer situation, gentlemen," Gregory chuckled, eyeing a very rumpled looking Colonel and the flushed Captain. "There's no time for it, we must move."

Kyle perked up. "What is it, sir?"

But the General's eyes had fallen on the sealed documents and without a word he motioned for them. Kyle was the one to hand them over, hovering at the tall Englishman's side as he broke the seal and scanned the contents.

"This confirms what we already know," Gregory murmured. He stared at Kyle flatly until the pilot snapped to attention with an awkward salute. The General rolled his eyes. "Captain, if you'll excuse us. We have business to discuss."

The redhead faltered. "But, the Bloody General… those papers-"

"_Captain_," the General rumbled coolly.

Nashoba did the honors of kicking Kyle out and slamming the door in his face.

…

Standing in the early morning sun, Kenny looked like some gritty Angel sent by God to fight Man's wars. He was strapped tight with a safety harness that looked like a broken pair of wings. His slim figure burned with golden light, hair set afire in a tousled halo. Glancing sidelong at Kyle, he grinned and his eyes were chips of pale blue glass.

Patting the side of his plane like he would a well-loved horse, Kyle turned to greet the blond as he jogged over. Reaching out to snatch up the heavy parachute bundled neatly into a knapsack, Kenny puckered his lips teasingly. Spinning on his heel, he presented his back to the pilot and shot him a flirtatious grin over his shoulder. "Saddle me up, Cap'n."

"You should be more serious, Major," grumbled Kyle, cinching the parachute into the harness frame with a thick snap. "This mission – if it's important enough that the Brigadier General has ordered it…" He hesitated, brow furrowing as he worked the heavy cloth into the metal frame. When Stan had emerged from his meeting with the British General he only shook his head when Kyle immediately asked about the papers. He'd told Kyle they'd be out at minimum a week before anything was decided. But Kyle knew to count his blessings. At least he'd be in the air again. His shoulders slumped with relief. It had been weeks since they let him on active duty, instead running reconnaissance and escort missions. Shaking off the distraction, he continued, "Whatever this thing is he's going to have us do, it won't be any walk in the park."

Leaning in to whisper against Kyle's ear, Kenny teased, "With you as my wings, Captain, I can't lose."

"Don't get fresh," Kyle chastised, though the hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "You know the rules about fraternization."

"Those only apply to officers and the nurses…"

Pursing his lips, Kyle cinched the parachute straps tight enough that Kenny winced. "That's because it's normal to want a girl." He backed off from the blond, face burning. Ignoring Kenny's confused look, and stepping cleanly away when the blond reached for him, Kyle jumped to attention as Stan strode through the hanger doors. The coils of wind twined by a sputtering propeller pulled at the Colonel's heavy coat and the thick material flapped around his ankles. Saluting as Kenny mirrored the action with eyes still on Kyle, both men relaxed when Stan waved the formality aside.

"At ease."

Kyle caught the tightness around Stan's mouth the second the Colonel turned to him. "Stan, what's wrong?"

"I've just received details on the nature of your tour," he answered wearily. Swiping off his hat to run a gloved hand through his disheveled hair, Stan sighed. "It's a trench raid."

Ten minutes later in Stan's office, Kyle fiercely shook his head. "No."

"Captain," Stan ground out with obvious tension, "You are addressing your superior."

Eyes flashing, Kyle stood from his seat and repeated, louder, "No… _sir_."

Brigadier General Gregory grinned, showing pearly white teeth. But the smile died before it hit his clear blue eyes. "If you weren't such a handy grunt to have around, Captain Broflovski, I'd have you court-martialed."

Entering with a tray of coffee, Nashoba froze halfway into the room, the clatter of tin ringing along the tension crackling between the British General and the mutinous American Ace. Glancing at a sorely uncomfortable Colonel Marsh, the Choctaw slowly backed out the door and returned to his desk. Only a fool would dive into a hornet's nest. "Good luck, sir," he whispered.

Standing up straighter, Kyle lifted his chin defiantly. "Do it. Do whatever you want, but I won't slaughter men as they drown in those trenches. I don't care if they _are_ the enemy." A vein was standing out in Stan's forehead, but Kyle ignored him and continued in a patronizingly sweet voice. "I fight in the air. You throw me into a dogfight; I'll tear them apart. But I _will not_ mow down human beings like I was cutting the grass back home!" Stalking closer to the General, who was still smirking in that infuriatingly calm manner, he hissed, "_Sir_."

"Got your fangs out, have you," Gregory said calmly, catching the younger man's chin and holding him still. "This damned fight has turned into a damned war of attrition, boy. It could go one forever if we don't escalate and hit them where it hurts." Tilting his head thoughtfully, Gregory lowered his hand and gently drew a finger along the crest on the redhead's chest. "The _Boche_ has increased the range of their Archies, and they're chewing our boys right out of the sky. We need a skilled pilot to tag the locations and gun them down." Blue eyes flashing dangerously, he stuck Kyle with his gaze. "And then we'll need that pilot to bonk their numbers." Snapping away from Kyle, Gregory slapped Stan on the back. "I know you said this _conchie_ was the best, but I don't have room for dissenters in my ranks, Colonel."

Kenny narrowed his eyes. "If I may, sir?"

Giving the blonde a warning look, Stan ground out reluctantly, "Speak."

"Captain Broflovski has a point. Being shit hot over a tactic like this…" He hesitated. "I mean; they've already got trench fever and foot rot to worry about."

But the General just smiled coldly. "Then we'll be putting them out of their misery." Now all his attention was focused on the blond, some Major known for his daredevil habits. "Do you want to win this war, boy?"

"Yes, sir," he answered without hesitation.

"Then we need to clear the way for the killing blow. The trenches may be nothing but cesspools but they have enough bite to be a thorn in our side yet. Without the frontline trenches we can make a strategic play forward. Because of the rot and fever you mentioned, the supply bases have been moved closer to their borderline. If we can reach those and destroy them, they'll have no choice but to make a retreat, and it's that much closer to surrender. However, these new anti-aircraft gunneries being built cut our chances. We need to sever them at the trigger finger and the supply chains are ours." Slicing his gaze to the mulish pilot, he smirked. "This is war, boy."

"Between men, sir," Kyle retorted calmly. "Between human beings."

"You're wrong, Captain," he sighed. "I know it's difficult to see clearly when you're so far above the fray." The artificial light cast his eyes in eerie shadow as he leaned forward into Kyle's space. "Naïve boy, there are no men left."

…

In the end Kenny was assigned to another pilot and Kyle was suspended from duty. He sat fuming in his tent with a hand snug under the line of his coat, pressed over faintly knotted skin. There a jagged line told a short story of a very pointy sword. Reaching out with a slender foot, he nudged the heavy blanket he kept wrapped tightly around the Bloody General's saber, the same blade that had speared him through. Miraculously it had missed anything fatal. Calming down, Kyle distantly remembered the pain, how it had clung to him for weeks. The cut had been so clean the wound healed up yet sometimes he awoke at night drenched in a cold sweat. _Burning eyes, staring straight through him._

He was dressed down to his undershirt when Kenny found him, already in full uniform. Blue eyes were bright, and Kyle knew the Major was cutting it close by coming to see him. Standing when the door closed behind his friend, Kyle let Kenny approach him, steps made heavy by boots and straps. The empty cots lining the walls, two or three deep were the only witnesses when Kenny leaned in to catch Kyle's mouth in a sweet kiss. Thin fingers gripped the thick cotton uniform tightly, nails scratching against the cloth. Kyle bit at the other man's lips, tasting the tang of Kenny's warm flavor. He swept his tongue across Kenny's teeth, gasping when the blond answered him, their tongues winding wetly as the stiff silence of the barracks pressed in around them.

Pulling Kyle flush against him, Kenny tangled his fingers in the redhead's hair and held him still. He stared into the pilot's green eyes. "I'm sorry," he breathed, "I'm sorry."

"That bastard was right, Kenny," he admitted sadly. "This damn war. It's sucked the souls of out people, and I'd bet a nickel for every man down in those trenches that a good number of them will welcome bullets over another day of rot and damp." Biting his lip, he dropped his eyes and leaned into the hand Kenny had raised to his cheek. "But I… I can't do it."

"I'm glad," Kenny said fiercely, forcing Kyle to look at him. "I'm glad. You're stronger than me. I just want this thing done so we can go home…"

They both jerked away from each other as a siren rang through the wet air outside. Zero Hour. Time to go.

"Will you be my salvation?" he murmured, taking Kyle's hand gently into his own before bringing it to his lips. Kyle's eyes grew hot at he watched the Major gently take his fingers into his mouth, enclosing them in wet heat.

"Kenny," he gasped. "Not here. For God sakes, not here!"

"I don't think a god would care," Nashoba pointed out boldly from the door, smirking as the redhead nearly fell over in his haste to put distance between him and the Major. He let the flimsy door rattle shut behind him and walked over the dirt floor on silent feet. It smelled like sweat and musk, deeply shadowed and inescapably damp. His own bed was behind his desk in the headquarters so he could answer any emergency wires from the front. Casting critical eyes over the shoddy cots, Nashoba stopped in front of the mortified pilot and grinned widely. "And as it goes, I don't either. You white men are so scared of passion," he said. "It's something you cannot control and so you limit yourselves with rules and practicality. In my culture, we honor love." Glancing between them, he shrugged as he turned to leave. "But the white man's other great love calls now. War." Pulling the door open, Nashoba took a deep breath of the icy air and called over his shoulder, "And you're already late, Major McCormick."

…

TBC

…

A/N: Sassy Nashoba is sassy.

I _love_ writing adventure stories. Almost as much as smut! XD

If you're finding it difficult to imagine Kip in an attractive light, I suggest looking at these pics by giobobobo (she makes Kip adorable!):

giobobobo dot deviantart dot com /gallery/28059983#/d5gse74

giobobobo dot deviantart dot com /gallery/28059983#/d5gnkdu

And a brief PSA; Reviews are to me like corn is to a corn-fueled hybrid vehicle, therefor if you feel so inclined you can leave a word or two and it would be greatly appreciated. : D

-Villain


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Kyman is coming in the next chapter. You'll be _well_ rewarded for your patience.

In the meantime, there's a little treat for Style and Kip/Kyle fans this chapter. : )

…

**Chapter 2: Wind Beneath My Wings**

Kyle could see his breath. A shuddering web of warmth caught fast by the chill. He cast his eyes out over the stretch of torn, ugly earth below the slope he'd perched on. They'd fought so hard to earn this wasteland, the diseased soil lying dead and cold between them and their retreating foes. He was thankful for the cold, for at least the frost disguised the rotting smell of corpses and old blood stuck fast in the earth's hungry muck.

A twig snapped and Kyle whirled, his knife up in an instant. The fading light of dawn slid along the blade's surface in a sinister flash, and beyond it he saw Nashoba with a steaming mug of coffee. Relaxing, Kyle tucked the knife away beneath his heavy coat, accepting the offered beverage with a tight-lipped nod of thanks. The Choctaw looked past him, his dark eyes reflecting the barren landscape with deep sorrow.

"My mother told me," Nashoba began, his gaze distant, "That the Battle of Gettysburg was the first she'd seen of Christian Hell." He hunched deeper into his thick jacket and closed his eyes. "The stench and heat was so thick, the ground so littered with corpses, that the land itself boiled. Men were swallowed by the earth and from their blood nothing could grow for ten years." Glancing at Kyle, Nashoba held the pilot's green eyes steadily. "Colonel is looking for you. I didn't tell him where you went."

"Thank you," Kyle said awkwardly, disturbed by the image of a boiling battleground.

Waiting patiently, Nashoba gave the redhead a wan smile. "I'm to fetch you, Captain."

They both looked into the dwindling morning one last time before heading down the hill together. Stan was waiting for them in front of his office, casually leaning against Nashoba's desk with a fresh cup of coffee. He tossed a glass jar to Kyle, nodding at Nashoba as he settled behind the desk to begin that day's report. It didn't take long for the clicking of the typewriter to start up.

Holding the jar of liniment tightly in his hand, Kyle felt a wash of relief. The hitched muscle still healing beneath the skin of his shoulder was tender and the ointment was a welcome reprieve, especially when it was so difficult to procure. He knocked his knuckles against Nashoba's desk by way of farewell as he followed Stan into his private office, shutting the door behind them.

"Just arrived with the med supplies," Stan said, his eyes searching Kyle's face. "It'll be the last for a while. The Bulgarian forces caught up some of our cargo planes. Which is bad news in itself; they're on their way to join the Central Powers at the Western Front as reinforcements."

"Kenny will be right in the thick of it then," noted Kyle softly, grunting with the effort to unscrew the lid. That familiar sting of cold peppermint curled under his nose, and Kyle's muscle seemed to twitch with recognition. It would soothe the deep pain stuck fast in his bones, a shadowed memory of the Bloody General's blade sinking into his body.

Taking the jar from Kyle, Stan read the faded label before he answered, "That's where he loves to be; where the action is." Eyes lifting when Kyle shucked off the outer layer of his clothing, Stan moved forward, pretending to not see the subtle contraction of Kyle's features when he worked the threadbare workman's shirt off his lean muscled torso. Their eyes met when Stan entered his space.

A jagged scar stretched in a strange smile across the right side of the pilot's chest, about two fingers down from his collarbone. Taking a small scoop of liniment, the ointment cooling abruptly in open air, Stan touched the raised flesh and massaged it in. Kyle bit his lip, eyes clenched shut. Stan watched his face as he rubbed the liniment into the skin in tight circles. His thumb brushed a pert nipple and Kyle's eyes flew open, his lips parting only slightly in surprise.

With more liniment slicking his fingers, Stan reached around to push at the skin along Kyle's shoulder blade, working the ointment in with varying pressure. Kyle's breath stuttered against his face, the sharp smell of peppermint rising in the air.

Kyle rested his hands on the front of Stan's uniform, his fingernails scraping the shiny medals decorating his chest. He opened his legs, lips falling apart to accept Stan's kiss when the Colonel slid between them, the liniment forgotten on the table.

…

Dodging a group of rowdy soldiers making their way through the camp – obviously the new set of doughboys just shipped over – Kip slipped between the mess tent and the med wing. Crouching in the narrow canvas alley, he peered into a puddle of brown water, squinting at his reflection. Combing his hair with unsteady fingers, he took a deep breath and stood to straighten his uniform. Those new recruits wouldn't be so bright-eyed by next week. Soon they'd be like the rest of them, drawn and haunted. Kip, unused to combat of any form, found it hard to identify with his peers, though he was witness to their misery. Another reason he was an outcast; not a flyer, not a trench-dweller. But Kip knew how important he was, despite the judgmental glances he suffered every day at mess, tucked into his food with a web of papers constantly spread around him. They'd said his job would be constant, but Kip liked it that way. He preferred it to socializing with roughnecks and soldiers that in groups sounded too much like the cruel boys at school from his tormented childhood. Besides, his work distracted him from his lack of friends.

But all his assignments, no matter how pressing, had been put aside. In a stroke of uncharacteristic courage, he'd bargained a rendezvous with Captain Kyle Broflovski in exchange for the expedited codes. He'd won two hours of the Ace's precious time. And, considering the Brigadier General himself had suspended the pilot from duty, their time was guaranteed to go uninterrupted. Something Kip had only dreamed about. And today was the perfect day, as most of the pilots and crew were either out in the field with the recent spike in activity on the Western Front, or in brutal training with the visiting British forces.

Kip didn't see much point in all the fuss over the British officers visiting, but he supposed pride was on the line for the American doughboys, so they felt the need to impress. All the better for him. They were heading to the fields well behind the Allied lines. The last group would be leaving in twenty minutes, leaving only necessary staff and a handful of the gunnery behind for defense.

He found Kyle exercising his shoulder near the towering row of poplar trees on the border of camp. The redhead had tied a length of linen around the lowest branch and was leaning from his wounded side. Pulling up diagonally allowed for safe stimulation of the shoulder muscle. For most people the simple one-arm pull would be effortless, but Kip could see the sweat beading over the pilot's brow. He could also see skin. Lots of skin. Lots of shirtless skin. Forgetting how to breathe, Kip startled Kyle with a violent coughing fit, nearly doubling over and flinching when the pilot jogged across to him and pounded him on the back.

"Breathe, just breathe," Kyle ordered, offering his canteen to the officer. Kip only wheezed in reply. Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, Kyle helped the other man stand up and led him to the base of the popular trees, a light but cold wind rustling the naked branches above. Their layered rustling rose in a cacophony and Kyle shivered, the sweat cooling fast over his skin. As Kip slumped against the trunk and gratefully drank from Kyle's canteen, the pilot shrugged on his jacket and stuffed the white undershirt into his pocket. Kip's wide eyes were trained on his chest and Kyle couldn't help a small smile. He wasn't going to turn down flattery. "Keep breathing, okay?"

Kip only nodded; face aflame with humiliation and unable to look away from the sinewy strength underlying Kyle's smooth skin, marred only by faint scars. Brown eyes slid up that slender body that had him washing his own sheets to avoid any awkward explanations to the nurses that did the bulk of the weekly wash. Then Kip finally met Kyle's gaze and nearly forgot how to breathe all over again.

The pilot was perfect. His willowy, feminine face was tempered by the hard line of his jaw and fiery light in his eyes. Curls of copper swayed with the wind, almost like invisible fingers were plucking at the light tresses for fun. Kip exhaled slowly, realizing he'd been staring after Kyle frowned and repeated, "Kip?"

Attempting a self-deprecating laugh that just came out hoarse, Kip nervously fluttered his lashes in harsh gray sunlight as Kyle tilted his chin up to inspect the dilation of his pupils. Then the pilot gently wiped away a stray tear conjured by Kip's coughing, his fingers calloused by flight controls, and smelling of sap. The decoding officer swooned, entire body heating up until he could practically see the red glow coming from his face. Kyle's brow furrowed and he pressed the back of his hand to Kip's forehead.

"You're burning up," he muttered, "What-" They both froze when Kyle glanced down and saw the obvious bulge in Kip's uniform trousers. He hesitantly met Kip's mortified expression. "Kip, what-"

Just then a shrill chorus of laughter echoed in the trees and through the tall grass appeared a group of nurses, all hauling bags of laundry and medical linens. They'd see the two officers any second. Acting quickly, Kyle shoved Kip behind him and plastered a huge grin across his face as the nurses caught sight of him and giggled.

"Captain Broflovski," they chirped, nearly in unison. They broke into another burst of laughter, their eyes twinkling with interest as they took him in. One of them teased, "You here to help us with the washing, Captain?" The others practically squealed with laughter, shooting Kyle flirtatious glances.

"Let's… get back to the barracks?" Kyle suggested under his breath to Kip, inwardly sighing at the other man's overeager nod. He had to remind himself that Kip had done him a favor, a big one. "Keep close," he murmured, waving jovially to the line of tittering nurses while Kip was practically plastered to his back. They slowly backed away until safely out of sight, though the noisy peals of laughter continued like the tweeting of birds almost all the way back to camp.

Alone in the barracks, Kyle and Kip sat across from each other in silence. The discomfort could be cut with a knife. Kip finally spoke up, his tone dejected; "I know you're watching the clock."

Kyle rubbed a hand across his eyes. "Kip, you haven't _said_ anything. For the last fifteen minutes."

Frowning, Kip nudged a bundle of blankets under Kyle's mattress and said, "You're… hard to talk to." Hunching into himself, he whispered, "I'll just embarrass myself more and more." Looking pained, Kip sadly shrugged. "Sitting here with you. It's enough."

Green eyes softening, Kyle patted the spot next to him on his bed. Kip stared for a second before timidly sitting down beside him – more accurately he was perched precariously on the edge of the thin mattress looking like he was about to take flight. Kyle breathed a laugh and reached up to brush the lanky locks of brown hair out of Kip's expressive eyes. "Why do I make you so nervous?"

He leaned subconsciously into the light touch, sighing when Kyle's long fingers stroked through his hair. "You're Lionheart. Flying Ace extraordinaire." Eyes widening solemnly, Kip blurted, "You're the Arrow!"

"And you're the best code breaker in all the Allied Forces," Kyle parried amusedly, enjoying Kip's self-conscious blush. "In all the world, too, I bet." Grinning, he added mischievously, "And you know it, Officer Drordy."

Unable to help it, Kip shivered and shifted uncomfortably. His pants were tight. "Can you… please, can you say that again?"

"Which part?"

"… My name," he exhaled heatedly.

Kyle hesitated, meeting Kip's eyes. "Officer Drordy," Kyle repeated slowly. His mouth quirked when the code-breaker bit his lip as if in pain. "Kip. Drordy."

Dizzy, Kip shook his head. "I'm sorry. You shouldn't waste your time with me."

"Kip," he groaned irritably, knocking the officer with his shoulder. "Cut it out." Meeting the man's distressed gaze, Kyle said firmly, "You do great things for your country, have some pride." He gripped Kip's shoulders, turning him roughly. "Me, I'm not that great. But I make something out of this hell, you know? When I'm up there-" he motioned vaguely upwards "-my heart, it sings. That's corny, but it's true. And _you_ Kip, your life here is codes and secret plans – you can single-handedly change the course of the war. You have to realize that—mmph!" Knocked back against the rickety headboard, Kyle instinctively clutched at Kip's shoulders as the other man kissed him with a burning desperation, his breath hot and noisy as he shoved his tongue into Kyle's mouth. Feeling the renewed erection pressing his hip, Kyle grunted as he twisted out from underneath Kip. With a thunk he flopped to the floor, lips swollen and hair in complete disarray. "Kip!" he hissed, wiping the side of his mouth. "What's the big idea!?"

Panicking, Kip slid to the floor and held up his hands. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" he gushed, "I just… you were saying such nice things, I-" Groaning, he held his face in his hands, shuffling back against the bed. He flinched when something cold touched the thin fabric of his undershirt peeking beneath the hem of his jacket, and looked down. Lowering his hands, Kip stared at the shining blade of a sword loosely wrapped in a blanket underneath the Captain's bed. His eyebrows shot up, humiliation momentarily forgotten when he realized exactly what he was looking at. "That's…"

"That's nothing," Kyle snapped, shoving the sword far under the bed. He was in a half crouch over Kip; close enough to feel the warmth emanating from the other man. Eyes flicking back to Kip's face, he scowled. "Not a word, Kip."

"But-" he urged, cut off as Kyle slammed their mouths together, yanking Kip close by the loose shoulders of his uniform. He instantly melted against the redhead, entire body aflame from that kiss. Dutifully ignoring the harshness with which Kyle was kissing him, Kip fervently pawed at Kyle's front and twisted against the lean frame, keening lowly when their tongues twined wetly between bruised lips. He let the Captain kiss him until he was nothing but heat and desperation - forgetting the sword, forgetting that Kyle had first pushed him away... And when a strong hand pushed into his pants Kip nearly bit through Kyle's lips. Shuddering bodily, he bucked in the pilot's grip, lapping at the redhead's mouth while he helplessly clung to him. It was an embarrassingly short rush of white-hot pleasure and he was cumming in his trousers, coating Kyle's hand and crying out passionately against the man's lips.

Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, Kyle took a deep breath and faced Kip. The officer was panting on the ground, a crumpled piece of brown paper. Kyle arched a brow and knelt down, offering the soiled handkerchief with an impassive expression. Kip stared back at him, eyes glassy and hazed.

When Kyle said his name Kip winced, swallowing down a suddenly dry throat. The front of his pants was ruined, drying quickly and unpleasantly stiff. He rose unsteadily to his feet. Kyle was standing in front of him wordlessly and Kip bowed his head. His cheeks burned hot and tears stung the corners of his eyes. "I… I won't say a word," he promised.

"Good. Now go away," was all Kyle said.

…

Christophe took a deep drag from his cigarette, dour gaze intensified by the heavy shadows underneath his eyes. The rain had come, drenching the training fields until the soldiers had been wading in nearly waist-deep mud. Gregory had finally called off the drill when he lost his own boot in the muck. It had taken hours to load everything up and struggle their way back to camp through sucking mudslides, washed out roads, and rain so heavy the drivers couldn't see the truck in front of them. They'd flooded back into camp right before mealtime, the cooks bombarded by a fleet of soaking wet men.

On the way back one of the British Armed Forces' carrier pigeons crash-landed into his automobile, the poor creature drenched and half dead from carrying out its purpose. Christophe stowed the message and gently wrapped the tiny feathery body in his coat. Its heartbeat pitter-pattered against his chest; sharp beak chipping at his skin as it slowly came back to alertness. Huddled under the canvas cover to the mess hall, trying to keep his cigarette lit in the chilling air, Christophe grunted, "_Etre tranquille_." The pigeon glared beadily up at him, halfway wriggled free from his hold. It looked offended and Christophe chuckled. "To ze coop with you, _mon_ feathered _ami_."

After shoving the agitated bird into the pens with the American pigeons, Christophe retrieved the message that had been strapped to its leg (and then kept safe in his breast pocket) and unrolled the tiny scroll. Tired brown eyes scanned the scribbled message. He needed to read it twice before he crumpled it in his hand and took off at a run.

It was just his luck to swing around the corner and collide with Captain Broflovski; the pilot hissing like an angry cat when he realized it was Christophe. But the Frenchman didn't have the heart to tease or flirt. Grabbing the redhead by the scruff, he pulled him unceremoniously along. "This concerns you."

Gregory was already in Colonel Stan's office by the time Christophe and a very vexed Kyle showed up. Nashoba was currently glaring daggers at the general's muddy boots, and grinded his teeth when Christophe and Kyle came tramping through.

"Listen to this, old boy," Gregory was trumpeting jovially, "These doughboys wouldn't last a day with some proper-"

"They've gone down behind enemy lines," Christophe announced gracelessly, cutting the blond off. "Ze pilot's dead and Major McCormick has been listed as Missing in Action."

"Bugger," the Brigadier General spat. "Location?"

"Hundred miles south of ze Front. They found ze plane and ze pilot." Eyes unchanging, the Frenchman added drily, "Sinking into ze mud. They're still pulling it out."

"Bugger _and_ bollocks," Gregory sighed.

Christophe glanced at Kyle. "Ze front of ze plane is gone."

Kyle's head snapped up.

"Torn off."

The Brigadier General slammed his fist into the desk, teeth bared aggressively. "You, boy," he barked at Nashoba, "Get word out across all channels to call back our men pulling trench raids. On the double!"

Shooting the General a look that clearly said he'd not appreciated the 'boy' remark one bit, Nashoba pulled on his headset and wound up the telephone. He started rattling off in Choctaw, one hand on the phone, the other tapping steadily at the Morse code oscillator.

Kyle watched him blankly, eyes following the fast movements of his hands as Nashoba spread the word via code to channels across the Allied Front. It would have been amazing to witness if the ground hadn't dropped out from under Kyle's feet.

"Gather them up," Gregory snapped at Christophe. "I want the unit ready to return to base camp _now_."

The French special agent and the British Forces Brigadier General swept out of the small office, leaving a stunned Stan in their wake. He opened his mouth several times, each attempt at speech failing.

"It's my fault," Kyle suddenly whispered, vision blurry behind a shield of unshed tears. He blinked and they sprinkled across the rise of his cheeks, shining in the weak light left flickering from the encroaching damp. His words seemed to shock Stan awake, and Kyle felt his friend's arms around him in an instant, pulling him against a broad chest.

"No," Stan said sternly.

He struggled, shoving madly at Stan as he cried, "It _is_! I'd never have let that happen to him, I'd never let him go!" Kyle was sobbing dry painful sobs, heaving in Stan's embrace.

"We'll send out recon as soon as the storm clears," Stan assured him. "We'll bring him back."

"But Stan-"

"Will you be _quiet_!" Nashoba snarled. Both Stan and Kyle froze, watching the secretary hiss into the phone, knuckles pale as he gripped the bulky radio to his ear. His next words were in Choctaw, a rush of clipped angry consonants, "_Chukma chol nach'chocoya chontal aylobaha gafuleya_..."

Stan let Kyle push him away, the redhead wiping angrily at his eyes.

The pilot moved forward, eyes narrowed in concentration. He'd picked up some of the language on the ship that had brought him across the Atlantic; he'd roomed with three Choctaw code speakers. Muttering out the side of his mouth, Kyle recited and translated the bits and pieces he could catch from Nashoba's panicked voice while Stan listened on tenterhooks. "… _Grains of corn_… that's battalion." Brows furrowed, he muttered, "_Little gun shooting fast_…. Machine guns. How many?" Scowling, the pilot was practically hovering over the Choctaw, "Almost a hundred?" He glared back when Nashoba scowled at him. "_Scalps_: casualties. How many dead?" Nashoba hurriedly wrote down a figure and Kyle cursed.

"That wouldn't be from guns," Stan said. "Not this many."

Then Nashoba said quietly, "_Bad air_." He looked at Kyle and Stan, eyes haunted. "He used gas to drive them out of the trenches. Just to be mowed down buy the howitzer… the wounded were rounded up as testers for the new fire guns – they're calling them flamethrowers." Shuddering, Nashoba muttered a quick prayer under his breath. "The newest model shoots 130 feet. He burned them all."

Kyle felt a chill run down his spine. "He?"

Cutting the signal, Nashoba pushed the headset away and licked his lips. "He rigged the Colossus and waited for the morning fog. No one saw him coming. Our frontlines were bombed with gas."

Kyle sucked in a breath. "You mean-" He was cut off by a pitched whine.

"Quiet," Nashoba murmured as he pushed a different headset against his ear and all but attacked the oscillator. Beneath the officers' tense eyes Nashoba started tapping out response codes, his lips moving quickly to trace the letters coming through with muffled clops. It nearly reached a buzz with the speed he struck, his entire body hunched close to the machine. The blood drained from his face as the letters shaped word after word, his replies growing shorter and shorter as disbelief clawed through him. His fingers finally fell from the buzzer. The signals kept coming, short clips repeating the same sequence over and over until Nashoba was echoing the pattern with a tense murmur, "It's him. It's…. actually him."

Gripping the secretary's hand, Kyle stilled the trembling and looked Nashoba hard in the eyes. The Choctaw looked steadily back, though flames of real fear licked through his gaze, burning the redhead. Stan stood quietly by, pale as paper.

Closing his eyes, Nashoba finally whispered, "It was the Bloody General himself." Dark eyes flashing open, Nashoba looked at Kyle, then at his shoulder pointedly. "He says we have something of his, and he wants it back."

Speaking through gritted teeth, Kyle yanked Nashoba up by the lapels of his uniform, "What the hell does that mean?"

With a smooth twist of his arms and a movement that was merely a flash of tan skin, Nashoba dislodged the pilot and sent him stumbling back into a bewildered Stan's embrace. Gaze cool, the Choctaw drawled, "He says the Captain would know." Arching a brow, he added, "I'm certain that means you, _washisho_."

Turning to Kyle, Stan's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "What's he talking about, Kyle? Do you…" He glanced at the spot on Kyle's chest where beneath the redhead's clothes was the jagged scar cut into him by the Bloody General's blade. "Do you have something you shouldn't?"

Flinching when the oscillator buzzed and shattered the pregnant silence, Nashoba slid quickly back into his seat and began going over the new lines. He gasped, and Kyle nearly tripped over himself scrambling to his side.

"What is it!?" he demanded, but Nashoba only shook his head and ripped the telegram free to hand it silently to Stan.

The Colonel slumped against the side of the desk, face drawn with horror.

"Stan," Kyle pleaded, glancing frantically from Nashoba's ashen face to his friend. "What? _What?_"

"He has him, Kyle," he said emptily. "The Bloody General has Kenny. And..." He looked back down hard at the telegram, brows furrowed with angry confusion, "It says 'two days'… Just, 'two days'."

…

That night Kyle held the sword in his hands as if it were made of glass. Kenny had snuck it back to camp unseen for him. While Kyle had been carted off to the med tent Kenny had stowed the sword, never telling Stan or anyone else about it. And now the Bloody General wanted it back.

And Kyle would give it to him. Pointy end first.

Stowing the sword carefully in Rosie II's cockpit, he revved the switch until the engine was coughing to weak life. With her engine so cold Rosie needed an extra push to start. He ran to the propeller, readying himself for the jerk of muscle pain that was to follow. The liniment jar had been left behind in his rush, and Kyle was certain his shoulder would suffer for it later. But he didn't have the time to fetch it. He didn't have any time at all. Gripping the panel of wood with stiff gloved fingers, he began to pull the heavy propeller down to catch the startup spark.

He heard a crash behind him. Whirling, Kyle found Kip tangled in a mess of parachutes and safety harnesses in need of mending. The officer was in his long johns and an oversized jacket, obviously donned in haste. He looked completely ridiculous, squirming like a fish caught in a net.

"What are you doing?" Kyle asked, kneeling next to the other man but making no move to help him.

"Stopping you," Kip answered, teeth chattering with the cold. He gave up on getting untangled when he realized he was only making it worse. At this point he couldn't move his legs.

Scowling, Kyle leaned close and warned the brunet darkly, "Don't do anything stupid, Officer Drordy."

"It's you," Kip argued, shrinking under Kyle's scathing look, "who's doing the- the anything that's stupid!" Halfheartedly he pushed at the heavy straps ensnaring him. "The hero… you don't always have to be the hero, Kyle Broflovski."

"This is my fight," the Captain snarled, "The Bloody General wants _me_."

Kip clenched his fists, lifting his eyes to look the pilot right in the face. "If everyone gives the enemy what they want then what are we doing here?" he demanded. "Maybe we'll surrender with a big red bow!" He was shaking uncontrollably. "You… told me to have pride. You called this Hell, but i-it's Hell we're keeping at bay." Tears of frustration stained his cheeks, anger cracking his voice. "And our guardian angel wants to go off and get killed for selfish reasons. I looked up to you, Kyle." Kip dragged an arm across his eyes, smearing the glittering trails of tears. "Even if you just use me," he gasped, "Play with me, my feelings for you…" The cold was licking at his face, chasing the rivulets of liquid and playing it close to ice. "I don't want you to die."

Kyle was silent.

"You know the Brigadier General has been waiting for reason to discharge you," Kip continued, sniffling. "This is more than enough for him to boot you out." Looking at the Ace pleadingly, Kip bit his lip before he promised, "I'll raise the alarm. We'll be trailing your plane within minutes."

Kyle's jaw dropped at the venomous note of betrayal in the other man's tone. The hot flush of indignation burned his face and Kyle stood abruptly. "I'd like to see you try," he shot over his shoulder. He grabbed the propeller and yanked. The dual fans of wood stuttered into motion, kick starting the noisy sputter of the plane's main engine. Wind kicked up, whipping Kyle's coat and the stray wisps of red hair peeking under his cap. Glancing back at Kip, he walked over to pick up one of the heavy parachutes. With cold eyes, he shouted over the spitting whine of the plane, "This should buy me some time." And he threw the parachute over Kip's struggling form.

It didn't matter what the officer said, Kyle decided. He leapt into the cockpit, hunkering down as he rolled towards the main hanger doors. Currents of wind ran along the wings, playfully lifting the plane up and guiding it along before the wheels touched jarringly back to earth. Kyle gunned the engine, holding the rudder steady to catch a straight lift-off.

It didn't matter what anybody said. Kyle knew what he had to do. For Kenny.

With a great exhale of force the wind boosted the plane and Kyle closed his eyes behind his goggles to experience that weightless joy that ascended all else, for that precious moment of weightlessness.

When Rosie leveled and was gliding along the rough currents of wind, Kyle stared grimly ahead into the pitch of night that stretched on in a great swallow of vastness before him.

For Kenny… And for revenge.

…

TBC

…

A/N: The code words listed in this chapter are actual terms used by Choctaw code speakers in WWI. Much of the military vocabulary didn't exist in Choctaw, so equivalencies like "scalps" = casualties, "grains of corn" = battalion were used instead.

Machine guns, fighter planes, grenades, flamethrowers, tanks, and chemical weapons were all invented during WWI. The First Great War was _the_ major turning point in modern warfare.

The more you know…

Already planning out the next chapter (aka: explosion of Kyman awesomeness). See you guys soon. Leave word if you enjoyed yourself, or even if you didn't (it really does help inspire motivation .)! XOXO

-Villain


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Hey guys, been out of commission for a while due to a horrible break up, my best friend having a mental breakdown and disappearing, and fostering three demonic kittens. It put a serious dent in my writing time, to say the least. Things should be smoother from here on out.

Pretty sure if I was going to go to Hell for anything I've written – this is it. Kyle, I am so sorry… No, I lied. I'm not sorry at all. But WARNING for dark stuff anyway…

...

**Chapter 3: You on a Silver Platter**

He opened his eyes. The velvet thrum of _Colossus_ was a comforting white noise that only barely registered anymore in the back of his mind. He slid from under silk sheets, pushing his toes deep into the plush carpet. They'd done a good job getting the bloodstains out; the previous owner had been less than willing to give up his lifelong work to not only a General in the Central Powers, but an American traitor as well.

Eric Cartman took a deep breath and dreamily gazed out the porthole window at the lazy swirling clouds making up an untouchable kingdom of white and cold. The morning was prettier soaring above the miserable earth.

Yawning, he rubbed the small of his back as he walked over to the window. The metal frame was freezing, though Cartman was pleasantly comfortable. Deep red wood paneling covered the walls, interspersed with photographs and tasteful paintings that had either caught Cartman's eye during raids, or had been gifts. His inherited surroundings were lush and expensive. Fit for the Bloody General, Scourge of the Skies.

He donned a dressing gown and sat at his desk, making a few marks on the wide map of Europe tacked to the desktop. It was all exceeding his expectations beautifully, all of it. Admittedly his peers in the Central Powers remained nervous, but Cartman had never lived better. Only last night he'd fucked a pretty little thing they snatched right from the air – a young Frenchman on his first tour of air duty. He had red hair and delicate features. Cartman had him shaved clean, and then blindfolded him to cover the pale hazel of his eyes. The long scarf he'd used to tie the young pilot still hung from the bedpost. And the pilot himself, well he had most likely frozen to death hurtling naked through the air as soon as Cartman pushed him over the gangplank. Boy was pretty, but useless once the General had been sated.

Glancing at the handsome clock mounted on the wall, Cartman noted the time. Donning his hat, he counted down; three, two one-

There was a knock at the door. Cartman barked, "Enter!"

Lieutenant Boyett was a tough as nails bastard with close-cropped blond hair and devilishly mean yellow eyes. He looked like a pale wolf ready to tear the flesh off anyone that crossed him. Dusting his face was a mess of boyish freckles that clashed with the air of danger that preceded him. Cartman trusted him - or more accurately he trusted the man's bloodthirsty nature. The Lieutenant worshipped the ground Cartman walked on. After all, he wasn't called the Bloody General for nothing.

"Report," he ordered, accepting the man's salute with a curt nod.

"They've finished outfitting the flamethrowers to the prow." His voice was like a paper cut, a sharp rasp that sliced the air. "Manual gear shifts were installed without issue."

"Range?"

"Two hundred and forty-seven feet full power. Three hundred and sixty degree radius enabled," Boyett reported. "We've already had men in the basket to try the controls."

"And?"

"Froze their asses off, but the trial was fully successful," Trent said smugly, yellow teeth bared in an ugly grin.

"Excellent." He turned, dismissing the officer. He traded the dressing gown for his uniform, putting it on piece by piece with practiced efficiency. He swung his trench coat over his shoulders and noticed that Boyett had lingered. Cartman finally snapped, "What?"

"Sir," he said, "McCormick is awake."

Cartman rocked back on his heels, looking thoughtful. "What's his condition?"

Boyett offered up a nasty grin. "Less than stable."

Snorting, the General thumbed the handle of his pistol sticking out from the holster hanging off the back of his desk chair. "Bloody him up. Never liked the scab. Always was in my way."

"Sir… always?"

"We spent our early childhood together. In South Park, Colorado." Giving the other man an icy look, he waited for the officer to get his surprise under control. It was widely known he wouldn't tolerate remarks made about his American heritage, something he barely acknowledged anymore. After all, he had proven time and time again where his loyalties stood. When Boyett only gulped nervously, Cartman looked back out the window. Stratus clouds cut across the wispy cirrus clouds, darker stripes on a pale tiger.

The General seemed lost in his thoughts. He struck an imposing figure in the shafts of harsh sunlight, standing tall with hands clasped behind his back. The skull on the brow of his hat gleamed demonically, and his big black trench coat hung heavy and impenetrable off his already intimidating frame.

"McCormick is a pest. But we can't exterminate him just yet." Eric bared his teeth. "Birds won't bite a dead worm, will they?"

Boyett obediently agreed, holding his breath as darkness seemed to collect around the General.

"A certain bird," Cartman continued, "Is making his way here right now. I've had him in my net before, but I set him free."

"W-why, sir?" Boyett was inching away from the general subtly, ready to bolt.

"In a dance," he said, "You can't move too quickly. There's a rhythm, a pattern. Otherwise the dance is over too quickly."

"I was never much for dancing," Trent said uneasily. The General's eyes were fiery, his expression distant and mean. The lieutenant knew he should leave before he became a target. "Permission for dismissal, sir? I should see to the prisoner-"

Cartman snapped, "Bring him to me."

"Yes sir!" he crowed, rushing out the door to do his general's bidding.

It was tougher than he thought to wrestle the blond American into the strategy room, even with the aid of two guards. When they finally tied McCormick to a chair, gagged and bruised, Boyett fetched the General, curious when the parachuter strapped to the chair went pale as a ghost upon sight of him. The American's blue eyes darted all over the General, fear leaving a clear signature on his features.

"Kinny," drawled Eric lazily, fingers trailing along the long table as he made his way over to the blond, "Nice of you to stop in and see an old friend." He peered down into Kenny's face and pressed a purple bruise riding the crest of the man's brow. A stifled groan sounded behind the gag and Cartman smirked. "I see the boys took good care of you." A muffled outcry; and Cartman laughed. "When we were kids Kinny wore this orange coat with a hood. Covered his whole face." Tweaking the end of the blonde's nose, he addressed the gathered officers looking on with blatant interest. "No one could understand anything he said, not that it was worth listening to in the first place." Crouching down until he was eye-level with the Major, the General brushed blond bangs out of a swollen, infected eye. "His brother roughed him up, sometimes his dad did too. So he hid behind the hood of his coat." The recognition and surprised horror shining wetly in Kenny's blue eyes was amusing to him.

The officers shifted uncomfortably, trading looks.

"There was only one person who could understand him," mused Cartman. "Only one person ridiculous enough to take the time."

Kenny seemed to come alive, jerking violently against his binds. The shock of the Bloody General's identity was a punch to the gut, triggering lost memories from his childhood. But the other American's words just then… The realization hit him like a ton of bricks and he shouted helplessly as Cartman's plan unfolded before him, revealed by the grimly sadistic slant of the Bloody General's mouth.

Kyle. He was after Kyle. Kenny was just bait.

"Kahl always cared too much about the lost and the broken," Cartman whispered intensely, forgetting the line of uncomfortable guards still standing behind him. Anger had swamped the fear in Kenny's gaze and Cartman drank it up hungrily. "He'd pick up the groceries for my mother. He said it was on his way, that it wasn't any inconvenience." Straightening Kenny's ragged uniform, the Bloody General bared his teeth. "We all knew he did it so that she wouldn't have to bear the burden of all those disapproving bitches judging her for being a single mother, for doing what she needed to do to keep her son fed." Bitterness soaked his words, dark and black. He wasn't looking at anything, eyes glassy with memory. "He made me want him."

Kenny flinched, biting the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood.

"When I hurt him," murmured Eric, snapping Kenny a look of strange arousal and shame, "It was because he took care of her better than I could. He just… shined too brightly. Like snow, just fallen. I wanted, _needed_, to mark him."

Squeezing his eyes shut, Kenny breathed heavily through his nose, anger and revulsion threaded through him until he felt ill. Cartman's hand was resting on his shoulder, clenching him through the thick fabric of his coat. He knew this story that Cartman was about to tell. And he desperately didn't want to relive it. But the cadence of Cartman's voice was otherworldly, soft and gripping. Each word touched him, prodded at him until they broke skin and sunk into his blood.

"Kahl wasn't weak," Cartman continued, an ache growing between his legs. "And he wasn't stupid. He was…" His voice faltered, and Eric turned angrily to the line of soldiers still lingering at the edge of the room. They looked utterly confused, and Boyett had the echo of suspicion in his eyes. "Leave!"

They raced out, shutting the door behind them. Kenny watched them go with a mix of envy and fear. He was alone now, with the Bloody General. But even worse, he was alone with Eric Cartman.

"He was kind," the brunet finished, grunting with the effort to stand upright. His erection pressed the rough fabric of his pants. Visions of red hair and slender limbs flashed against the backs of his lids. "Kind enough to let me touch him, kind enough to let me push him down-" he broke off suddenly.

Kenny looked up and found Cartman staring at him with hauntingly focused eyes. His broad face was carved from stone, eyes cold glittering chips of amber that bore into Kenny with undeniable rage so palpable he felt the sting. Struggling back against the chair, the Major twisted and fought when Cartman leaned down until their noses were almost touching.

The Bloody General's voice was thick with fury. "He would have _let_ me have him. But you had to get in between us."

Frantically Kenny pushed at the gag with his tongue, eyes flying wide when Cartman's fingers brushed the handle of his pistol. A string of unintelligible protests burst from him, and the General smirked. Then Cartman removed his gag, and Kenny blinked in confusion for an instant before he sputtered, "That's a lie, Cartman! You were hurting him; he-" He faltered, then went on grimly, "Kyle tried to be your friend. He wouldn't listen to Stan or I when we told him how sick you were in your head." Now Cartman's hand had closed over the gun and Kenny swallowed nervously. "You - you closed him up in that crawlspace out by Jimbo's woodshed until he was screaming. That's what we heard, that's why we came to find him." Kenny was suddenly shaking, remembering the animalistic terror that rang through the empty woods so long ago. The echoes had thrown Kyle's voice in a hundred different directions, shattering like glass against the trees. "We split up. And when I found you-" His mouth clicked shut as the barrel of the pistol was rested against his brow.

"You're greedy trash," the General growled, digging the metal into the Major's skull. "I rescued him from the crawlspace-"

"Doesn't count for much when you're the one that put him there," Kenny hissed, gasping when Cartman cocked the gun, the click reverberating against his bones.

"Stop lying, Kinny," the General warned smoothly.

"I know what you're planning. I know why I'm still alive; why I wasn't just left out to die from the cold and wet on the plains." Kenny's blue eyes sparked. "I'm bait for Kyle. You know he'll come for me. For _you_."

In reply Kenny only received a quiet smile, lined with malevolence. Fitting the gag back into the man's mouth, Cartman walked out, leaving a guard behind to watch the prisoner.

Striding down the hall at a purposeful pace, the Bloody General waved off a pair of pages, and dismissively stamped a stack of documents wielded by a breathless corporal who chased him down. By the time he'd reached his chambers his coat was undone and he'd barred any visitors with a sharp decreee. He was not to be disturbed.

Stripped of his coat he stood in the middle of his room, staring at the heavy bed. It was large, opulent. Absurd by military standards and certainly excessive when compared to the sleeping arrangements provided to his men. The carpet, sheets, and interior detailing were drenched in the rich color of red wine. Cartman undid the clasps of his pants and slid onto his bed, staring down at the pillows. One had a slight impression where he laid his head at night, while the other was still pristine. Moving up until he was leaning over the untouched pillow, Cartman pulled his erection free from his pants and concentrated.

The only clear memory he had was of that day in the woods when he pulled a frightened Kyle from the crawlspace, free from the dark and damp. He licked his lips at the nostalgia of red hair and wide green eyes underneath him on the ground. So scared, crying with long fingers tangled tightly in the cloth of Eric's jacket.

Cartman spit on his hand and loosely fisted his cock, drawing his thumb around the head and dreaming of a hot tongue doing the same.

_ Kyle's hair was ratted with cobwebs, and twigs from the forest floor. Eric had held him close, laying his whole weight over the redhead. He moved in awkward, jerky motions against the other boy. Warm stutters of pleasure shook up his groin, stoking a steady ache of heat that pulled at his core. Kyle's shaking voice, still dazed with fear and relief all at once, repeated his name over and over and Eric only thrust faster until there was a near painful explosion and the front of his pants were suddenly wet. He panted heavily into the side of Kyle's neck, ignoring the frantic struggling. Rubbing his crotch slowly across Kyle's hip Eric covered the other boy's mouth with his hand and hissed when teeth sunk into his knuckles…_

Just the memory was enough to make him slick and hard, sliding in and out of the tunnel of his palm. God, he wished it were Kyle's mouth, his ass… Cartman stared fixedly down, drawing Kyle's face lying back against the pillow, imagining the look of pleasure-pain as Kyle would submit so beautifully to him. How he'd beg and plead for Cartman's cock, for the pain he could deliver while he dominated the spirited redhead. Gritting his teeth, the General bit out a cut cry as he came messily, spurting his climax over the expensive sheets and vividly envisioning the viscous white stain on red hair or a snow-white cheek instead.

"Fly, _klein löwenherz,_" he murmured, rubbing the cooling liquid between his fingers as the last of his orgasm faded into a low burn. "Fly to me."

…

He was nearly frozen, fingers nothing but rigid claws around the control guiding Rosie II through fog thick as pea soup. Slightly concerned about the damp warping the sealed wood of Rosie's propellers, Kyle swung into a neat arc above the long stretch of clouds. The hull broke the wispy white like a whale breaching frothy water. A burst of sunlight scoured his skin, just a slight kiss of bare warmth before Kyle angled his plane back down into the thick cold wool.

A little warmth wasn't worth the risk of being seen, either by the enemy or his own allies. By this time someone would have found Kip and sent out a beacon on his whereabouts. Kyle had no intention of being caught before he'd finished what he came to do.

At his side the saber rested inconspicuously, the handle still neat and shining. He looked down at it contemplatively, arm holding the joystick steady when he leaned to pick it up and set it across his lap. There was a chance he'd need it shortly if the coordinates were right.

Soon the clouds thinned into a sickly pall, a haze that saturated the air and turned the ground below into a mush of grays. Higher up was lighter, as if a different world entirely. Kyle angled above the leeching cold of the mist and broke into clear sunlight. It was still achingly chilly but the light gave some semblance of warmth that made it much more bearable as he passed the hours.

Kyle had very purposefully been trying not to think. If he thought too much he'd have to admit how horribly irresponsible and wrong he was to do this. And what – if he survived – would be waiting for him back at base. A Court Marshall at the very least, possibly dishonorable discharge regardless of what Stan might try and negotiate. Kip had been right; the Brigadier General would be more than happy to send him packing for far less than his current transgression.

"Shit," he muttered mulishly, gripping the controls harder though his fingers complained for it.

Peeking through the lonely crystal castles making up the cloudy kingdom, Kyle could see something faintly ahead. He squinted; biting the inside of his cheek as he realized it was the nose of a giant shape – a zeppelin. _The_ zeppelin.

_Colossus_.

Frantic, Kyle dove straight into the cloudbank again, cursing the neatly spaced alto cumulus clumps that danced above the destroyed earth. If scouts were anywhere he'd be spotted instantly.

Kyle veered sharply when the crack of gunfire ripped past his wing. Driving Rosie II too hard, Kyle realized he was looping in a dangerous nosedive, losing the uplifting current of air in one gut-wrenching moment of vertical horror. Practically throwing his weight back he urged the plane's nose up up up, until she caught the gust of wind that pushed her back into flight just as an enemy plane swooped down menacingly, flanked by three other sleek shooters.

Just as Kyle was taking aim with his front machine guns, the planes abruptly swerved away. He blinked in surprise, only to realize that the clouds were parting like water across the broad front of the _Colossus_. Medusa's carved face, still proud and grotesque, leered out at him and Kyle gasped as his hand flew to his shoulder instinctively. Phantom pain lanced through him at the sudden appearance of the airship moving with disquieting subtlety.

His quick eyes caught the movement of the ugly metal claw unraveling from the belly of the mechanical monster. Jerking to the side, Kyle curved closely along the bottom of the zeppelin until he curled over the top like a lobbed ball. The enemy fighters were back in full force, their numbers swelling to ten lithe aircrafts darting like fish in front of him. In his gut Kyle knew they wouldn't hurt him, so he kept on; catching gusts of aggressive currents so that he was able to hold a glide above the _Colossus_, following along its course like a seagull circling a sailing vessel. The fighters buzzed around, mere angry insects as Kyle patiently waited. He turned up the radio, leaving the channels clean for a guest network. He wasn't disappointed.

"You're late," came the cold voice. "I should just kill Major McCormick, and punish you for wasting my valuable time."

The crackling of the airwaves greatly distorted the man's voice, but Kyle knew it was the Bloody General. Adrenaline raced through him and pitched him into a drunken haze. His fingers trembled on the controls, heart nearly bursting free from his chest. He yelled back above the angry noise of the enemy fighters, "Didn't your mother ever teach you patience, General?"

"Patience," was the crackling reply, "is for those who don't know how to take what they want."

"No, it's for those who earn their rewards," Kyle parried, jarring Rosie II closer to the top of the zeppelin. Grinning wildly, the Ace pilot waved at the German planes before he twisted down right onto the heavy skin of the airship. There were tack lines crisscrossing the surface, made from heavy woven rope and twine. Lighter ropes interspersed the larger, and those would hold Rosie II steady. With the propellers still spinning Kyle crawled out of his plane and alighted on the back of the zeppelin stretching out on either side like a vast black titan. He took a deep breath, holding onto the wing splints to stay upright in the wind.

The German planes were crisscrossing the sky, and he could see the pinheads of the pilots peering down flabbergasted over the side of their cockpits. He grinned and tightened his belt around the sword hanging at his side. A military-grade pistol was on his other hip should he need it.

Kyle kept low to the rock hard body of soaked cotton and linen, toughened by layers of special paint to withstand the elements. It smelled like copper after rain, tinged with the oily scent of ozone. The pilot moved along, tugging the lighter ropes up and over Rosie II's wheels to fastened her steadfastly to the zeppelin. Jumping up onto the lower wing, he reached into the cockpit and pulled free a small linen tarp to strap across the plane's front. It created a covered angle off the face of the plane to inhibit any pesky gust of wind from catching her up and possibly taking her free from the ropes to plummet, riderless, to the ground far below.

He felt him before he saw him. Kyle's grip clenched and he turned slowly, hand inching under his heavy overcoat to brush the handle of his pistol. There before him stood the Bloody General, face hidden in shadow beneath his low-riding brim. Only a razor sharp smile was visible. He stood tall in the winds, coat billowing around his ankles. Shoes shone, and his trousers were impeccably pressed. The medals on his breast glinted. Locks of brown hair peeked underneath the hat, and big hands were hidden in deep pockets.

Then he turned around and began to walk away.

Kyle sputtered, letting go of Rosie to follow the other man, blood rising in his face at the abrupt dismissal. "Hey!"

But the General had disappeared over the side of the ship, climbing down a rope ladder strapped along the tall curved wall of the _Colossus_. Staring down the manmade slope, Kyle watched the shrinking figure against the backdrop of clouds and patchwork landscape. Stuffing his gloves into his pockets and checking that his pistol and the sword were stable, he began to descend after the other man. Anticipation burned through him at this unexpected encounter, tinged with subtle disappointment. He hadn't even seen the man's face.

Walking back into the warmth of the interior, Eric didn't need to look behind him to know the redhead was following and most likely casting suspicious glances at the armed guard. He'd instructed his men to leave the pilot untouched. Smirking, the General ducked into the strategy room and offered Kenny a wide grin, watching with sick glee as the blonde's face drained of all color behind the gag as Kyle entered the room.

Brushing past the General as soon as he saw the blond, Kyle flung himself at the parachuter and ripped the gag from his mouth to check for any damage.

"Kyle," Kenny hissed, "Kyle, you need to leave – get out of here now!"

"He's not going anywhere, Kinny," Cartman purred, pressing the barrel of his pistol against the back of Kyle's head. "Kahl's the guest of honor."

Ice froze his heart and the pilot suddenly mirrored the horror in Kenny's frantic gaze. Instantly his memory flashed _the scent of damp and dark, rotting wood. The smell of his own fear thick as musk... A blinding rush of painful bright light, heavy heavy hands… Along his spine he felt the sting of branches and stones as a thick body shoved him into the forest floor. Sugar sweet breath clung to his face, pushing into his mouth as cold lips tasted his tear-streaked skin. And screaming. He'd been screaming._

No. It _couldn't be-_

He didn't hesitate; Kyle snapped to the side out of the path of the gun, whipping around with his arm leading, and his own pistol slammed hard into Cartman's arm. But the General read his movement and lashed out with a heavy boot, catching the pilot directly in the chest to throw him back into Kenny. They both toppled to the floor, Kenny screaming behind clenched teeth as the heavy wooden chair cleanly snapped his wrist underneath the sharp edge of its walnut frame.

Staring hungrily down at them, the Bloody General cocked the pistol and the two American soldiers froze.

Sharp green eyes followed the path of the would-be bullet and Kyle saw the aim leading right between Kenny's teary eyes. He shifted over protectively, staring Cartman down as he put himself directly in the path of the shot. "Let him go."

"That's not much of a bargain." His teeth glinted in a sneer as the pilot surrendered his pistol by tossing it across the floor. "Hmm, strike one."

Kyle didn't break eye contact as he slid the sword over next.

With a tilt of his head, Cartman scoffed, "Strike two."

Instinctively moving closer to Kenny, Kyle angrily accused, "You said we had something of yours, and that you wanted it back. There it is; I gave it back!"

Slowly the molten brown gaze slid over Kyle's body. "One more strike, Kahl." Cartman's eyes snapped upped as he murmured, "Or Kenny's _out_."

"What is it then?" he growled, rising up on his knees and spreading his arms out with Kenny still bound to the upended chair behind him. "What is it, Cartman?"

His name on those beautiful lips went straight to Eric's cock. "The sky must be the only place you feel free," he said suddenly. "Are you still trying to escape, Kahl?"

"I don't know what the hell you're talking about," the redhead snapped.

"I followed you up," he continued, undeterred, "I tried to tie you down but you flew away." Motioning around them, Cartman said, "But I've grown my own wings."

It was difficult to breathe. Kyle reached behind him, gripping Kenny's forearm, knowing that if he tried to help the blond Cartman might only hurt him more. A very narrow span of choices presented themselves, all garbled by the sirens of shock and dismay sinking into him. The Bloody General was Eric Cartman, of South Park Colorado. Kyle's childhood nightmare who had once trapped him in a crawlspace for two hours and made him think he'd suffocate. He'd never forgotten that, and the paralyzing fear of small spaces had never quite loosened its grip on his nerves. Narrowing his eyes, the pilot suddenly understood Cartman's cryptic words. And though Kyle was loathe to admit it, the bastard was right. The sky was freedom, endlessness.

"Please, Cartman-" he tried, but the General cut him off.

"Captain, you're addressing a _superior_ officer," Eric gleefully chided.

Kyle ground his teeth. "… General, I would like to negotiate for Major McCormick's safe release."

Eric's eyes burned with heat. "And what do you have to offer, Kahl?"

Taking a deep breath, Kyle met Cartman's eyes steadily and answered, "Me."

"No!" Kenny shouted haggardly, twisting in the chair despite the way it shred his wrist. "_No_, Kyle he'll- Godammit, Kyle, he'll finish what he started back in the woods!"

Cartman was already striding to the door with Kyle's pistol and the sword in hand to call the guards in. Kyle sat motionless on the floor while they moved around him, roughly lifting Kenny and untying him from the chair. All the while the blond was pleading with the redhead to leave him, but Kyle kept his eyes on Cartman.

"Get him a parachute," Eric chortled, "And dump him."

The Captain was on his feet instantly. "Cart- General, he's injured. Jesus!"

"Then you suit him up, Captain," he soothed sarcastically. "We'll provide all the equipment. And it's up to you to make sure he doesn't die a horrible death."

"I don't know if I'm equipped-"

"Please, Kyle," whispered Kenny. His wrist was at an unnatural angle, purpling already with spoiled veins and snapped bones. He cradled it close to his chest. He stood unbound now, though held firmly between two huge guards. "If you won't leave…" he swallowed against the pain that left his face green, "Then I only trust you to do this. Please."

After Cartman had ordered them out to the top deck, the wind a nasty whip of ice across their shoulders, Kyle stood with Kenny at the prow. Below them the crest of Medusa's head was visible. A precautionary piece of rope was looped around the redhead's middle in case he thought he'd jump along with the blond and risk the elements for escape.

He cinched the straps, shaking with fury as lines of blood scoured Kenny's arm where a shard of bone had broke skin. "Promise me you'll live," Kyle muttered, glancing up at Kenny's sad eyes.

"I promise I'll come back for you, Kyle," he vowed fervently, touching the side of Kyle's face with his good hand. "I'll come back for you."

"I guess it's only fair," Kyle whispered back, licking his lips as he clipped the safety closed across Kenny's midsection. "It'll give you a chance to redeem yourself after being the damsel in distress."

"Kyle," he urged suddenly, good hand tangling in the front of Kyle's jacket. "Don't do this. I can stay, I can-"

"You can't," he said firmly. "And you know it. As much as it…" he hesitated, swallowing down a dry throat, "Terrifies me, you know that he won't let me go. And he'd kill you without a second thought. He… never did like you." Kyle felt a jerk on the rope and glared behind him at the leering guard that held it like a leash. "Kenny," he said, "You're my only chance now." The pressure on the rope increased and Kyle pressed a desperate kiss to Kenny's mouth before he was yanked back by his waist. A guard pushed past him and without preamble shoved Kenny over the railing.

Kyle gasped and scrambled towards the edge, fighting viciously to wriggle free of the rope. He managed to slide it down his hips and lunge at the rail, staring down over the sharp drop to see Kenny's falling figure distorted by mist.

Then he heard the audible sliding pop of a parachute engaging.

"Thank God," Kyle murmured, bowing his head against the freezing cold metal. He tensed when he heard heavy footsteps approaching and pressed his forehead hard to the floor until the cold was seeping into his skull. The adrenaline from worry and the heady excitement of facing the Bloody General was fading into a pale sort of sickness. If he fell, maybe the wind would catch him and carry him to safety. He'd heard stories of tornadoes gently placing animals or people in trees or on rooftops back in the States. The chance would be worth it, wouldn't it?

But he knew he'd die. And he knew that type of death would be a slap in the face to everything he stood for, and everyone he loved. Anyone who had ever called him Lionheart.

"I know you're thinking of taking the coward's way out."

Kyle stiffened when he felt a heavy shadow stretching over his body, a cage of cloth made from the hem of the Bloody General's long coat.

"Although you're not a coward, _klein löwenherz_, you're brave to a fault."

His breath quickened perceptibly when a thick hand embedded itself in the hair on the back of his head. Kyle barely caught his hat as Cartman hauled him to his feet unceremoniously and shoved him firmly against the thin metal railing.

"But I've always liked your fire, Kahl."

Clenching his teeth, Kyle ripped his head forward and tears sprung to his eyes when a few strands of hair were ripped from his scalp as he twisted to kick the other man.

In an instant the guards had rifles trained on him, and two of them had grabbed him to wrestle him roughly to his knees. He hissed in pain as the muzzle of a gun dug into the side of his head. Fully aware of how unstable the rifles were Kyle held very still until Cartman's ugly laugh cut the tension and suddenly the sting of metal was gone.

"Take him to my chambers. He won't try anything again," Eric said knowingly. "I'll deal with him there."

Later they were alone in Cartman's quarters, Kyle pale and shaking with anger after being stripped down to his briefs. He'd fought them tooth and nail; earning a nasty cut on his lip and a flowering bruise along his cheekbone. The scar knotted over his collarbone ached faintly at the angle his arms were bound tightly behind his back.

"I want to hurt you," The Bloody General announced with a disturbingly casual air. Sitting at his desk, he was slowly absorbing the sight of the redhead on knees that dipped into the rich wine-colored blankets covering his bed. He'd been right, the shade was a beautiful compliment to the pilot's complexion.

Kyle blanched. "You sick bastard-"

"It makes my cock hard to see you in pain, Captain," he murmured, rising to run his fingers over the redhead's face. "You're beautiful when you bleed."

He was breathing faster now, nearly gasping when Cartman curled thick fingers beneath his chin to tilt his head up. "Cart- _General_, stop this. We're not kids anymore-"

"Be quiet," he scolded almost distractedly, far too intent on the pools of green that made up Kyle's eyes. "You should save your voice for when you scream my name."

Clenching his jaw, Kyle yanked his face free from Cartman's fingers and fumed, "I won't be screaming anything later. This isn't a game, Cartman. You've betrayed your country!"

The smaller man was trembling. It was subtle, but Cartman could feel the minute tremors skittering over pale skin. That was fear. Delicious fear that was intoxicating. Eric was sure he could smell it on the pilot, that heady mix of musk and spice that was uniquely Kyle. He'd bury his nose in that red hair and inhale the other man's scent as he fucked him deep and slow. Every inch would burn the redhead's ass and rip his flesh. He would hold the pilot down with his own two hands; he would force him with brute strength. Eric wanted to own every punch and kick Kyle would valiantly bestow in self-defense. If he could swallow the pilot like a dessert he would; consume him entirely, possess him wholly. He'd drink his soul and crush his will into a fine powder.

"You think," the redhead hissed, swallowing blood, "That I won't fight you?"

"Oh, you will," the General smirked. "To the bitter end. That's why your fire is so fun to play with." He put a knee on the bed, grinning when the pilot flinched, "Go ahead and burn me, Captain." Catching Kyle around the neck as he tried to scramble away, Cartman yanked him forward until he could taste the other man's fluttering breath. "I've been waiting to sink my cock into you for my entire life."

Dark terror wound its way around Kyle's throat like a noose. "B-but your men are everywhere, sodomy is-"

"You should hear the nasty rumors about America's famous Ace fighter," he crooned, stroking Kyle's face as his eyes fondled the redhead's features. "A Nancy boy, a lick-box pansy who winks at the enemy."

His hackles rose. Kyle shoved forward into Cartman's face. "They can call me whatever they like – I'll still shoot them down," he snarled venomously. But Cartman only laughed and patted him on the head like a dog. With growing ire, Kyle added, "And I'm not the filthy sodomite that rapes boys-"

The slap sent the redhead sprawling off the bed, landing hard on his injured shoulder. He gasped wetly, cheek aflame where it had torn slightly from Cartman's military ring.

"Only you, Kahl," Cartman panted, body tight with tension as adrenaline pumped into him. Striking the other man had lit the flame of dark desire inside him. "Only you. It's _you_ that made me this way, turned me this way. You filthy, whorish tempter." He followed the redhead down onto the floor, leering into Kyle's twisted face. The stench of fear was delicious.

Kyle was glaring stubbornly at the floor, Cartman's breath hitting the side of his face. The other man was heavy, straining his shoulders even more with his weight, but Kyle wouldn't give Cartman the satisfaction of revealing his pain. So he remained quiet and sullen underneath the General's intrusive gaze, lips pursing when exploratory hands glanced over his back.

The angle of light pouring through the windows changed, distracting Eric from Kyle's misery. He stood and went to look outside, lips curling sinisterly. "Come here, Kahl. I want to show you something."

"I don't want to see anything you have to show me," Kyle grumbled in reply, shoving his face deeper into the sweet-smelling rug. If he bored the General then maybe he'd just be put in some holding cell to be negotiated as a hostage.

"You'll learn quickly," Eric said lightly, walking over and grabbing Kyle by his hair, "That when I tell you to do something you'll do it."

Yowling angrily, Kyle tried to twist his feet for some purchase, but only managed to stumble badly, crashing into the window to remain pressed against it by Cartman's bulk.

"Look. What do you see?"

"Buildings," he seethed, "Spires, birds." His tone was bitter, but with the mutinous answer delivered, the grip on his hair lessened in reward.

"It's one of the oldest cities in this region. And that," Cartman pointed, "Is St. Anne's. A nunnery, and orphanage."

A niggling worry settled in Kyle's gut. "It's…" He swallowed uncomfortably, not understanding Cartman's game. "It's beautiful."

"Many of the orphans there," Eric went on, "Are orphans of the war." His eyes cut to the side of Kyle's face. "They must be so sad without their parents, all up in Heaven."

Kyle remained silent, waiting. He could feel the bile rising in his throat.

"It would only be merciful to reunite them. I'm going to blow them all up."

Kyle clenched his eyes shut.

"I'm going to drop a bomb on them, Kahl. It would be gracious if they all died quickly, but we can't make promises." He nuzzled the side of the redhead's face. "Take comfort in the fact that they think they're going to a better place." Spinning Kyle to face him, he finished, "Really, I'm doing them a favor."

Disbelief must have shown on his face because Cartman shouted an order and one of the familiar guards – Boyett – was immediately inside the door. His pale eyes flew over Kyle's state briefly before settling on his commander.

"Sir?"

"We're over the target."

"Yes, sir," he confirmed. "The ordered drop of 400 PuW units for maximum effect. Won't be a soul left unless they're just very unlucky."

"And the gas?" Cartman drawled, his eyes on Kyle's drawn face.

"Twelve hundred canisters sir," Boyett established with a glance at his notepad. "And with the wind speed it should knock out the neighboring hamlets. We estimate it should be powerful enough even at that range to take out any elderly or youth."

"Excellent. Take us over the crops for now and await my signal."

After the officer had left them Kyle was shaking so hard his teeth chattered. Somewhere he found his voice and was able to shake his head weakly and say, "They… don't deserve that." He'd seen the aftermath of a bomb raid, marched through it the day he first set foot onto the land he'd be fighting for. Twisted corpses left for the gas to finish in mangled heaps of drawn-out agony. The sight would never leave him for as long as he lived. "Cartman…" He knew there had to be a reason the other man was telling him this. "Tell me how I can stop it."

"Good boy," Cartman murmured fondly, drawing his thumb along Kyle's swollen lower lip. "I have my orders to blast this pitiful little town and everything in it. But I'll redirect the fire to the fields – destroy the crops. That'll fulfill the directive." He paused. "Is that what you want, Kahl?"

"To save them, yes," Kyle whispered, gut twisting with nauseous fear. He blanched when Cartman cupped his ass and pulled him flush to his front. A hot erection pushed against the indent of his hip and Kyle looked away.

"You're being so agreeable, Kahl," he mentioned, placing searing kisses along the redhead's sweet neck. "I'm almost disappointed."

"I'm not going to play with their lives," the pilot bit out. "I know you're evil enough to do it. To slaughter innocent people."

"To keep you I'd burn the world," Eric agreed seriously, raising his eyes to peer deeply into Kyle's. "Now that I've got you, it's your choice how much of it I'll turn to cinders."

The surreal quality of the man's words stained his skin. Kyle was barely able to stay upright. He could feel himself going into shock after everything that had happened, all too quickly. There was the desire to break down, to run, to throw himself onto the mercy of the sky. A memory, _the_ memory, clung to him; Cartman's terrifying possessive lust confused in youth. Need to rend, to own, to hurt. Kyle had never understood why out of everyone in South Park Eric Cartman had become so fixated on him. Had become obsessed to a point that he trapped Kyle in a crawlspace to mentally torture; something the redhead had never truly recovered from.

And now he was in an entirely new nightmare, one that dashed the heroic expectations he'd had of finally meeting the Bloody General, the man who had become more legend than reality. But Eric Cartman was very real. Soaking into the marrow of Kyle's bones.

"You… you want to humiliate me."

"I want you to suck my cock, _klein löwenherz_. To start with," he added sweetly.

Kyle raised his chin and held Cartman's stare before he slowly went to his knees. He saw the other man's eyes darken with lust and fought the disgraced flush that rose in his cheeks. "You disgust me," he stated. Cartman only laughed, unzipping his trousers, still in full military dress in contrast to Kyle's barely clothed state.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Kyle shuddered when the heavy cock swung against his face. In its wake it left a trail of precum, smearing over his skin in a translucent line. He felt like vomiting but resisted the urge, clamping down aggressively on his gag reflex when the bitter head of Cartman's leaking erection pushed abruptly between his lips. The musky smell of the Bloody General's arousal filled his nostrils and Kyle flinched when fingers played along his jawline. Then a thumb shoved in beside the thick shaft and his lips were stretched wider.

Kyle coughed around the flesh down his throat; Cartman's thumb hooking him like a fish on a line to keep him in place. And oh God how he hated it. Hated the awful bitter taste, the painful stretch splitting his freshly cut lip, the overwhelming force of Cartman's dominance pushing at him just as much as his cock.

Tears were streaming down his face when the General began to thrust, fucking him down his throat with pent-up brutality that had Kyle coughing and sputtering until spit ran down his chin. The sloppy mess of sound drowned out his heartbeat, accompanied by loud gagging as he forced his throat to take Cartman's girth, the General's heavy breathing loud. And he could feel those evil brown eyes eating him, savoring the humiliating sight of Kyle getting his face fucked in a mess of saliva and tears.

"You're perfect," Eric grunted, eyes burning with the strain of not blinking. He didn't want to miss a second of that gorgeous mouth accepting his cock, or the beautiful glitter of tearful eyes. The pilot's hands were still bound behind his back, giving even more control to Eric to use him, abuse his mouth until blood from the cut on the redhead's lip was mixing pink into his tears and spit. "I'm clipping your wings," he vowed, "I'm tying you down." Fear ate through the humiliation until Kyle's eyes were swamped with it, turning his irises a muddy green.

It was his greatest fear, to be unable to fly. And Cartman could do it. He could break his legs, break his fingers, his arms. He could destroy him, sever his limbs until he was nothing but a mouth and an ass to use as the Bloody General saw fit.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Kyle tried to let his throat go slack or he would vomit. But Cartman wasn't slowing down, thrusting just as hard, faster and faster until Kyle thought his jaw would break.

Cartman felt the hot-wet spiral of orgasm tearing through his lower body, winding up his dick until his balls tightened. Ripping Kyle back by his hair, Eric stared directly into glazed green eyes as he came all over the redhead's face, gritting his teeth with the painful pull. Semen caught up in the tears, Kyle's entire face wet and shining and beautiful.

"I could do it again, Kahl," he said. "Your mouth was made for my cock, your entire body is for me."

Slumped against the bed, Kyle was panting heavily as his jaw hung slack. His wrists were red and raw from struggling, his lips numb from the heavy friction. He felt beaten, half alive. Cartman's words washed over him like tepid water, sticking to his skin.

Kneeling down, Eric took Kyle's face in his hands and whispered, "It's only the beginning. I'm going to take all that you have, everything you are. I'll bleed you out like a stuck pig until I've had my fill of you."

Kyle let the other man push a soiled finger into his mouth to taste the foul evidence of his humiliation.

"I have a full schedule," Eric murmured, dragging dirty fingers through Kyle's hair. "Today was going to be a genocide. There are three more targets to bomb."

Something sparked in Kyle's eyes.

Cartman mentioned offhandedly, "Thousands will die."

The redhead's voice was garbled, hurt and husky, "No, they won't."

…

He drew the swollen head of his erection down the crack of the other man's ass until it caught on the slippery rise of puckered flesh. The skin all around was wet with oil he'd used to thoroughly prepare the other man beforehand, shining in an erotic glisten slicking Kyle's body. Cartman wanted inside.

"How far are we?" Kyle whispered, speech slurred as he got used to the bruising on his mouth. The echo of Cartman's teeth and vicious kisses stayed on his lips. Beads of sweat dotted his back and darkened his hair. His hands were still secured by his wrists behind his back, sweat-slicked and worn, red and raw. He was trembling uncontrollably.

The General sunk into the slender body slowly and the redhead seized up. Cartman dropped to his elbows and rolled his hips, Kyle's frantic breaths slicing across his face. "I'm going to ruin you," he assured him darkly.

"H-how far?" he asked again, hair tousled and falling over his eyes. Through the licks of scarlet tresses the green of his irises were pale and sparkling in the white-gray sun bathing the room in a swath of mottled light. Kyle looked even fairer than usual, his briefs torn from his hips, shredded down onto the bed in a collection of soft angles.

"Stop worrying," Cartman dismissed sharply. "We're over barren land. I kept my word. None of them will die today."

Nowhere in Kyle's heart was there any will to thank the man, but he still uttered a weak "Thank you." His voice was as pale as a memory, and tears jumped to his eyes when thick fingers dug roughly through his hair. Trying to stay as still as possible, Kyle shut his eyes and ignored the quiet burn of tears as the Bloody General remained seated inside of him, violating him without moving. They stayed that way for what felt like hours, Kyle eventually choking out what resembled a dry sob. It hurt so much, like Cartman was grafting to his skin.

"I'd devour you," promised Cartman into sweaty red hair. Smooth skin was hot under his hands. The tight walls of Kyle's trembling body clenched around Cartman as the pilot panted into the pillow. White hands were strained against his binds, flexing and unflexing in a panicked rhythm. Cartman shifted inside the other man and Kyle reacted violently, his gasps shallow as he jerked against the mattress.

The stretch of Kyle's hole around his thick cock looked painful. Cartman was fascinated by the pucker of flesh nestled between the firm globes of the pilot's ass, already marked up by the Bloody General's teeth and hard fingers. And leading from his tailbone was the graceful swoop of his spine, trailing up to sinewy shoulders etched with tensed muscle drawing lines of suppressed anger and fear. Kyle was a heady concoction of inherent sensuality and emotional strength that Cartman was addicted to.

"You intoxicate me." Cartman inhaled the honeyed cinnamon scent of the other man, rocking his pelvis to rip a ragged sob from Kyle's bruised mouth. When he canted his hips the pilot's head jumped up from where it had been pressed into the pillow for the last forty-five minutes. Cartman's slow torture was breaking him down. "You want to move," Cartman husked knowingly, "Go ahead, Kahl, fuck yourself on me."

"I don't," the trace of a voice pleaded. "Cartman… Please just finish, please."

Closing a hand around the back of Kyle's neck, Cartman shook him. "You know how to say it."

"No," the redhead groaned, rebelliousness coloring his threadbare voice. He cursed breathily when Cartman dug his nails vengefully into the ripe cheek of his ass.

"You must love me sitting inside you like this then; stretching you on my cock until you're loose and wet. Maybe you'll get loose enough that I can use it whenever I want." As the redhead struggled in outrage Cartman kept him pinned. "I can just bend you over and stick it in your whore-loose hole."

"Bastard," Kyle screamed raggedly, seeing red. "You savage, disgusting traitor!" The sting of Cartman's cock pushing deep within his body enraged him, a calmly delivered violation that would leave Kyle feeling like a used glove for hours.

"Get angry," the General urged heatedly, "_Get angry_." Then he uttered a mean bark of laughter and slapped the redhead's ass while he ground down deeper. He growled possessively, "Give me something to laugh at, _klein löwenherz_. You're inside a fortress flying through the air, and thousands of pathetic lives are depending on you. It would just take one word from me, and they're gone. You know that. You know the power I have."

Kyle was silent, body thrumming with frenzied rage. But he knew, in that moment, he wouldn't win this fight. Not today.

His spread legs were cramping, and his entire lower body was unbearably sore. Kyle wanted it to end, he wanted it over so desperately that the proud pilot bowed his head and bit down on a cry as he shakily pushed back onto the Bloody General's pulsing cock. Closing his eyes in shame as Cartman groaned with pleasure, Kyle clenched around the hot flesh impaling him, tired muscles screaming as he rode the other man. He breathed loudly through his open mouth, his brow knit in concentration as he bucked up to get the head of Cartman's cock to rub his prostate and ease the fractured pain wracking his system.

"That's right," the General praised, "Like that, Kahl. Good, so _good_."

The words didn't matter; Kyle didn't care. He just wanted the other man _out_. He wanted to sleep, to hope to dream. To know those innocent people hundreds of feet below them were safe, at least for one more day. Burying his face in the pillow, hating the mark of each finger tightly gripping his hips, Kyle rocked back and forth. And Cartman invaded his body, crashing into him on each thrust, finally yanking Kyle back of his own accord until the redhead just slumped into the sheets and let the General use him.

…

TBC

…

A/N: Kyman has entered the building! And don't worry; Kyle has plenty of fight left in him. Things are just getting started. XD

-Villain


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Another loooooooong delay. I'm so sorry. Updates should be more frequent from here on out.

Also, WARNING: there's blood, intense violence, and killer bad-assery so please beware. XD

…

**Chapter 4: Princess and the Pea**

"We found Ken- Major McCormick."

Stan could see Nashoba was breathing hard, the sweat on his brow further evidence that he'd run. It wasn't a good sign. Moving swiftly to don his coat, Stan asked, "How is he?"

Hesitating, Nashoba dropped his eyes and whispered, "He's… alive, at least."

"Shit."

They both broke into a run when they saw the head nurse with her front coated in red. She was barking orders at the other nurses, fetching steaming pots of boiling water. Stan burst into the medical tent and froze in his tracks.

Kenny was bone white against the crisp sheets, blood covering his front where deep gouges scoured the flesh of his torso. He kept trying to speak; aggravating the wounds so much that one of the nurses stuffed a role of gauze into his mouth to finally shut him up.

"Report," Stan demanded the head nurse.

She gave him a halfhearted glare before rattling off, "He was practically gored by a tree. The wind was far too strong for parachuting and he had on shoddy equipment. We need to get him stitched up or he'll bleed out."

Leaving them to their work, Stan rubbed a shaking hand over his face. Nashoba hovered at his side.

"If that's the state _Kenny's_ in then…" Nashoba started, jaw clicking shut when Stan shot him a dark look.

"Don't say it. Kyle is… he's fine."

"We need answers," Nashoba muttered, stung. "Are you... are you going to go after him?" He knew it was the Colonel's intention, but the Brigadier General wouldn't hear of it. Considering the circumstances of the Captain's direct disobedience, the commanding officer wouldn't be lenient about a rescue for someone that already caused so much trouble. There'd be no way Stan could possibly rally any number of men to go after Kyle without directly defying Brigadier General Gregory and putting his own position – and Kyle's welfare – at risk.

"I know what you're thinking, Nashoba," Stan sighed. "And my hands are tied. But… as soon as Kenny gives a report I'll have something to work with."

Nashoba nodded, his eyes sliding over Stan's shoulder. The med wing door swung open as a nurse left and the Choctaw caught a glimpse Christophe across the roadway, smoking.

"I have an idea," he said suddenly, and left Stan standing in the med tent with a confused look on his face as he ran out to meet Christophe.

The Frenchman gave him a searching look, taking a long draw on his cigarette before dousing it in a muddy puddle under his boot. "Oui?"

"Sir," Nashoba started, glancing around. "Do you still… do mercenary work?"

Christophe narrowed his eyes, pulling the secretary back into the shadows by his arm. The smaller man stiffened, but Christophe silenced any protest with a hard look. "How do you know about zat?"

Yanking out of the Frenchman's grip, Nashoba grumbled, "I know about everything."

"Your attitude isn't very becoming," Christophe returned smoothly.

"Can we discuss my attitude _after_ you've answered my question," he pressed, stepping into the special agent's personal space.

"Zis is about rescuing ze Captain," Christophe guessed, smirking. "I always thought you and he didn't get along so well."

"Probably because we are very similar," Nashoba sighed. "But he's our Ace. And we don't leave a man behind."

"He's ze one zat left, non?"

The Choctaw groaned, "Christophe-"

"Oui," the Frenchman admitted, cutting him off. "I am still… involved with zat kind of work."

"Christophe," Nashoba said haltingly, "You must go after him."

He held the secretary's eyes, "If you wish."

"I do wish," the secretary confirmed, squeezing Christophe's arm in thanks as he noticed Stan leaving the med tent. "Please, we'll talk later." He jogged over to his boss, falling into step with him.

"Kenny went under," Stan said, voice flat.

"Went un-?"

Stan stopped, pinching the bridge of his nose. "A coma, from the blood loss."

They continued back to the office in silence. Nashoba slid behind his desk and said, "He'll wake up. You know he'll wake up." When Stan only disappeared into his personal office, Nashoba slumped in his seat. He remained that way for the better part of an hour, feeling helpless. It wasn't as if they hadn't lost men before – this was _war _- but the entire regiment saw the Captain, Stan, and Kenny as a triad of inspiration. Nashoba knew the morale of the camp would plummet should anything happen to them. Already in the wake of Kyle's absence the other pilots had become restless.

Sighing, Nashoba shuffled the papers on his desk and absently busied himself with work until the sun sunk below the horizon. A crick had developed in his neck and the Choctaw worked it with tired fingers, blinking at the time. He'd forgotten to eat, and it looked like Stan hadn't moved from his office. Wearily lifting himself up, Nashoba cracked Stan's door open and peeked inside to find the Colonel slumped over his desk, a bottle of Whiskey half empty beside him. Quietly Nashoba closed the bottle and hid it underneath his own desk. Then, covering Stan with a coat, Nashoba stole away from the office to find Christophe.

Christophe was smoking outside the canteen, and he nodded at Nashoba as the secretary jogged up to him.

"I'll need to speak with McCormick," the Frenchman said.

"I don't think you can," said Nashoba sadly. "He passed out cold from blood loss."

"No matter."

The Choctaw blinked, jerking back to attention when he realized Christophe was already striding towards the medical tent. Stumbling after him, Nashoba darted a nervous look back at the Colonel's quarters. Stan couldn't know about Christophe and Nashoba's plan – not yet - or he'd be obligated to stop them and possibly issue a court order for conspiracy.

When he entered the area where Kenny was kept, Nashoba saw that Christophe was fingering the back of the unconscious Major's neck. He was feeling for a specific set of nerves that when tapped just the right way-

Kenny shot up with an undignified squawk and nearly bashed Christophe in the nose, were it not for the man's quick reflexes. Nashoba, not expecting the sudden movement, went reeling backwards and nearly crashed into a cart of bedpans.

"His wounds!" roared the head nurse, shoving through the curtains to reach Kenny's side. "You damn fools will reopen them and he'll die for sure."

Kenny, blinking in a stunned dumfounded way, went very still at those words. He winced while the nurse carefully tightened the bandages and applied heavy gauze to the lighter wounds. Shooting a scathing look at Christophe, the head nurse stalked out with one last warning to not move Kenny and to keep his voice at a whisper if he absolutely needed to talk.

Suddenly Stan burst into the tent and barked, "No one move."

Christophe completely ignored the Colonel and leaned in close to Kenny's ear, speaking to him in low tones. The earnest expression of determination that spread over Kenny's features only made Nashoba's doubts grow, his mouth twisting into a grimace as Stan hissed, "When I… ahem – _woke up_, you weren't there and Kip-" he motioned irritably to the stressed looking coder standing awkwardly behind him – "was sitting there crying like a baby because he'd tapped into a radio call from the enemy's front. The _Colossus_ has been banked for days, not moving anywhere despite the intelligence we had on some scheduled bombings-"

"Quiet, Colonel," Christophe drawled.

"Wha-" Stan huffed irritably, scowling when Nashoba tugged him away.

"I'm sorry, sir," Nashoba gushed. "It's just…" Wincing, he confessed, "Christophe, he's going to get Kyle back."

Deflating, Stan turned wearily angry eyes on his secretary. "You didn't see any need to inform me?"

"I didn't…" Nashoba swallowed. "I couldn't tell you, sir. You would have to inform the Brigadier General, and he would never authorize-"

"Zat pig-head doesn't need to know," Christophe interrupted. "Zis falls under Special Forces jurisdiction." He grinned with all teeth. "_My_ jurisdiction. Broflovski's detainment by enemy forces is a serious security breach." Leaning away from a drawn looking Kenny to fiddle with the cigarette behind his ear, he added, "It's out of your hands. It's time for us to move in ze shadows."

"I can do that! I can help!" Kip blurted, freezing when they all turned to look at him. "I've been developing an external wave that can catch the signals from twice our current range. And-" he swallowed nervously, "And I've got a radio in the works that can be carried by a man – wireless. You could go… and I could follow and keep feeding you directions." His face was flushed, eyes bright. He'd moved further into the room, encouraged by their silence. "It's my fault Kyle's gone, so p-please let me help."

"Nothing could've stopped him, Kip," Kenny rasped from the bed, smiling weakly when Stan rushed to his side and clasped his hand. "Not your fault." He started coughing, terrible wheezing coughs that sprung tiny leaks of pink to color the bandages.

The nurse almost bodily threw the collection of soldiers out, only Stan's harsh order stopping her. Still fuming, she forced water down the Major's throat and rubbed soothing circles over his back.

Christophe crossed his arms, expression thoughtful. "You know," he mused, "No one has ever lived after seeing ze Bloody General."

Suddenly Kenny jerked up as if electrocuted. "Cartman," he grated, struggling against the nurse's firm hands. "Stan, it's him… Cartman, it's Cartman!"

"What ze hell does zat mean," Christophe droned, eyebrow arched skeptically.

But Stan ignored him. His face had gone completely white, and he stared at Kenny in horror. "What? How- are you _sure_?"

"Yes," the blonde hissed, gulping down water the nurse pushed at him before sputtering, "He knew it was Kyle all this time – he's been waiting for him."

Christophe murmured, "Like a spider trying to catch a fly."

The Colonel dismissed the nurse then gripped Kenny's hand harder. "Kenny, please be sure. You have to be sure."

"I'd wager my life," Kenny insisted, "I was _bait_. For Kyle… Cartman used me as bait."

"Smart spider," Christophe muttered.

Everything about Stan's demeanor went through an alarming evolution. He stood and looked hard at Christophe. "You need to get him back," he said. "Get him back."

"So you don't think he's… dead?" Kip whispered, tensing when Stan clenched his fists.

Shaking his head wearily, Stan whispered, "No, he'd… he'd keep him alive."

"Zen we've got a chance," Christophe said, standing.

"What about the Brigadier General?" Nashoba reminded them worriedly.

"We don't tell him," Stan said. "And we work fast. Kyle has a lot worse than death to worry about."

…

Trent Boyett watched the redhead eat with a faintly bored expression. The pilot, on the other hand, was in obvious pain; his mouth bruised and raw. Friction burns around his wrists stood out starkly beneath his cuff as he lifted the spoon of thin broth to his lips. He was dressed in a thin white shirt that slid loosely down his shoulders, ill fitting and far too large. Trent's eye twitched. The General's shirt; that's what the American was wearing. Odd, wasn't it?

"May I have some water," Kyle asked, his voice stripped of any emotion. It was taking everything he had to stay awake. Cartman had kept him up all night then left him tied securely to the headboard to avoid any unpleasant rebellions. While the traitorous man had slept, Kyle remained awake in an uncomfortable position and counted down the hours as his old wound awoke with new pain. And though Kyle was a hardened soldier, the mental and emotional torture far outreached the physical so much so that his will was whittled to a tiny nub.

Suspiciously Trent filled a glass from a tall pitcher and shoved it over, careful to remain far enough from the pilot that any sudden movement could be safely circumvented.

The water was blissfully cold and clear, coating Kyle's aching throat in a layer of soothing coolness. He drank greedily and leeched the mild numbness the cold awarded his sore and worn lips. His mouth had bled last night, now callused and swollen from the friction of Cartman's cock violating it over and over, driving his own teeth into the inside of his lips. Coughing, Kyle set the precious water down and shook his head. He didn't want those thoughts, not when he finally had a moment to himself – well, partly to himself. Boyett was quiet enough, despite the skeptical glare he continued to cast.

"There's not much to you," Trent said.

The pilot ignored him, sipping at the broth. His other hand was curled possessively around the glass of water.

"You're practically a legend in your own right," Trent continued, lip curling when the redhead went on snubbing him. "The Ace, the Arrow. Lionheart." He leaned forward, annoyed when the redhead still didn't look up. Slamming his fist on the table, Trent growled, "But you don't look like anything to me-"

Kyle moved without warning, slamming the heavy bottom of the water glass into the side of Trent's head, lip twitching at the nasty wet crack of sound. As he turned his body, he used the momentum that awarded him strength his muscles didn't have to drive the handle of the soup spoon into the soldier's cheek, ripping the fatty flesh of the man's face with a sickening, coppery smelling flap.

The blood gurgled across white teeth and dribbled onto the pristine carpet where Trent lay completely still. Kyle stared wordlessly down at the man, wondering if he would survive the blood loss combined with blunt trauma. Tossing the spoon down onto the too-still body, the pilot grabbed the pistol at the man's side, along with the military-grade dagger. He regretted allowing the blood to soil the crisp uniform jacket, knowing he could have used it as a disguise to sneak around for a bit longer. Cartman's oversized shirt was entirely too conspicuous for any real escape attempt. Sneering, Kyle knelt down to strip Boyett of his trousers and belt. He had to tighten it to the last loophole, uniform pants loose and itchy on his tired legs.

He heard faint noise from the hallway. Time to go.

Taking one last swig of water from the tall pitcher left on the table, Kyle rushed to the door and hid against the doorjamb, waiting with baited breath until he heard the sous chef coming to collect the dishes. The door swung open and Kyle was presented with the vulnerable back of the sous chef. Artfully spinning the dagger in his grip, he lunged and dashed the butt of the blade against the base of the boy's skull to drop him like a stone.

Leaving the two bodies, his torso now fitted in a slightly smelly kitchen uniform, Kyle jogged down the narrow hall. He pulled the drab cap soaked with cooking oil and sweat down over his eyes, stuffing red curls up under the brim as best he could. All he needed was a way out. And Rosie II… Rosie was still perched atop the Colossus ready to fly him out of this Hell unless Cartman had done something to her. If that was the case – Kyle shuddered. Losing the first Rosie had been difficult enough, and also Cartman's doing. Scowling and keeping his head down, Kyle fumed at the memory.

Adrenaline coursed through him and washed away debilitating fatigue. The back of his head buzzed, and he tensed when two officers rounded the corner. One was tall and impossibly lean, but the other was nearly Kyle's size. Staring straight at the floor, Kyle kept walking steadily. There was no sign of them stopping, or even taking notice of the slender man dressed in a stained chef's shirt and too-large uniform pants. He let go of his breath as they past, glancing back a final time.

Unfortunately one of the officers chose that moment to turn and take a good look at the sous chef. He thought the gangly boy had been taller… suddenly recognition dawned on the man's face as he recognized the General's prisoner. Sputtering, he grabbed his companion and shouted, "It's the Ace!"

His nerves fired up like the wires of a machine. Kyle drove at the two men, catching them by surprise and knocking them back enough that he could cleanly swipe the dagger tucked into his belt and slice close enough to the shorter man's jugular that blood rained in a curtain of fragrant red. There wasn't a moment to lose. Pushing through the spray, Kyle – stained red all over his face and white shirt – met the other officer with a clash of metal as the blade of the dagger skittered against the handle of the man's pistol.

Kyle used the momentum to rock the muzzle of the gun up and away from his face, dropping down beneath his raised arms to head-butt the officer in the solar plexus, tackling him to the ground. The tall man growled and threw a punch, catching the side of Kyle's head with his long arm. An explosion of pain echoed out from his temple, but Kyle only rolled with the blow and came back around with the pistol now is his other hand, hastily pulled from his belt. The clack of metal meeting teeth was loud and bloody. Kyle didn't stop. He neatly ducked the man's failing arm and jerked the dagger he still held down to slice at the man's wrist.

The gun the officer held went off, blasting the opposite wall and stinging the air with the burn of gunpowder. Kyle rolled off the man, pistol in one hand and the dagger in the other. Pointing the gun he let loose with a shot, striking the officer right in the chest. In the short quiet that followed, Kyle's legs buckled and he collapsed, breathing heavily. His shoulder ached, entire body running on fumes that were quickly thinning. Tossing the empty gun aside, he quickly took the pistol from the shorter officer who remained in shock on the ground, drowning in his own blood from Kyle's more-luck-than-skill blow.

Leaving two _more_ bodies in his wake, Kyle slid along the wall. Fully aware the gunshots would bring reinforcements, he pulled open the first door that was unlocked and slipped silently inside.

There was white everywhere. And the smell of fresh linens. He blinked, running soiled fingers along the crisply folded bed sheets, tablecloths, pillowcases… A trail of red smudged the pristine cloth and he drew his hand back. The sticky stink of blood was mixing unpleasantly with his own sweat. Shucking the shirt, Kyle rubbed at his chest and the back of his neck. For his face he used a pillowcase. The hat he'd stolen from the sous chef was gone, knocked away in the tussle.

Staring at the white cloth, now tinged pink in his hands, the pilot was struck with an idea. An absurd idea, but after all, desperate times…

It took him longer than was safe, but by luck no one came by. He'd underestimated the guttural breath of the giant zeppelin. Something like a gunshot wouldn't be perceived as a gunshot at first. It could be fire from a plane, a minor air pocket rupture, the snap of a cable; anything that they would check first before seeking the source from within the machine. That bought him a few precious minutes to swaddle himself tightly in linens. From head to toe he covered himself, harkening back to when he, Kenny, and Stan had played mummies as children. They'd used rags and tablecloths back then, chasing each other around the yard. Kenny's hair had stuck out through the strips of cloth and Kyle had laughed and laughed.

Buoyed by the pleasant memory, Kyle slowly worked himself into the towering pile of white linens, inserting himself like a letter into and envelope. There was only the slightest lump, but the pile nearly reached the ceiling. He wriggled and squirmed until he was able to touch the wall on the other side of the pile. From the front the rows and rows of linens looked untouched, the soiled cloth he'd used to wipe himself clean well hidden beneath the folding table.

Then he fell silent. The weight of the linen on his body was all at once a strange comfort, like it was holding him together - and an unbearable pressure making him feel trapped. He closed his eyes, flinching when pale memories of Cartman confining him in the crawlspace licked at the backs of his lids. Instead he opened his eyes and focused on the whiteness of the room. The muffled quiet. And he waited.

Not long after there was commotion outside the door. Voices - many voices in a rabble of surprise when they discovered the bodies. Kyle couldn't hear what they were saying, and he didn't want to. Much like a child shutting out the evil of the dark, Kyle turned his face into the linen, taught as a wire, willed them to move on. Look for him elsewhere.

_Not here, not here, not here…_

The door opened.

Kyle nearly bit through his lip, eyes squeezed shut.

"Kahl."

He couldn't breathe.

"Kahl. I didn't think you could do it." Eric's sharp eyes darted all over the room at once, searching for a scrap of evidence. "Now come out. You interrupted a very important meeting."

_No no no no no no no-_

"Do you know how to find a needle in a haystack, Kahl?" he sighed, stalking slowly around the room while his men were outside aiding their fallen comrades and raising an alarm.

Kyle gulped down a dry throat.

"You burn the haystack."

Cartman slid his saber from its sheath, the slide of metal a sensual sound against the pillowy quiet of the room. He stepped close to a huge bin of clean linens yet to be folded. Raising the sword above his head, he stared down into the pile of cloth before picking a spot and swiftly stabbing downward.

Nothing.

Humming pleasantly, Cartman swung around and chopped at a bunch of pillowcases. His eye twitched when there was nothing.

"I know you're here," he said. "There's nowhere else to go at this end of the ship."

When nothing answered him, Cartman's gaze settled on the largest pile of linens.

"Are you the pea?" he asked cheerfully, grin slicing his face. "All tucked away beneath the mattresses…" Pausing, Cartman closed his eyes to listen, the tip of his blade wavering in the air as if smelling for something. "No, you're more of a princess, _klein löwenherz_. Don't you think?"

Cartman ran his hand over the tower of linens, gaze hungry.

"Your prince has come," he cooed, abruptly stabbing his sword into the thick pile of cloth.

…Nothing.

"Kahl," he wheedled, tone edged with violence, "Kaaahl." He whirled around and stabbed deep into another linen tower, and jeered when a thin voice cried out and a beautiful swath of red petered out over a framing layer of white material. Growling, "Found you," Cartman reached in with a big hand and dragged Kyle out by the scruff of his neck. Blood ran freely from a shallow wound in the muscle of his upper arm, ribboning in swirling patterns down to his fingertips. Eric dragged the pilot to him, holding the sharp edge of the blade against the man's throat.

"Sir!"

Cartman grimaced, turning to see a group of his men crowding the doorway. He tossed Kyle towards them. "He's armed, but wounded. Clean him up and notify me when you're done." Sweeping quickly from the room, Eric strode past his men who were puzzling how the pilot had managed so much destruction on his own in such a short amount of time.

But Cartman had never doubted Kyle's abilities. The hidden sinuous strength, graceful power disguised by slender limbs… His meeting with the Ottomans could wait. At least a few minutes. He _needed_-

Bursting into his quarters, Cartman secured the door and practically tore into his trousers to grip his heavy cock with a long groan. His hand was still slicked with Kyle's blood, easing the slide of his palm over turgid flesh. Thrusting angrily into his hand, he fed off the rage from Kyle's insolence. A secret part of him wished he'd seen the pilot fight, seen his body struggling against the two men, ultimately triumphing over them. Snarling through clenched teeth, Cartman fucked his own hand desperately until he came in thick spurts that seemed drawn from his very core. But there was still so much left, so much lust and anger and need. He'd have Kyle tonight. He'd have him.

…

TBC

…

A/N: Wow, this was gory as fuck. Sorry about that. Ew.

Please tell me your thoughts! I'm at a crossroads, so your reviews inspire me, and I greatly appreciate them. : )

-Villain


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: I have no idea why this story has been so difficult to keep on schedule! Hopefully this chapter will help redeem my lateness. Enjoy! XD

…

**Chapter 5: Deal with the Devil**

The Sultan ruling over the Ottoman Empire would never be able to recall how his royal Serasker, grand vizier and commander of the Ottoman armies, came into his employ. Yet somehow no one questioned the man's place, or challenged his substantial influence and power. After all, the Sultan trusted Damien with his life.

Once Damien had convinced the Turkish minister of war, Enver Pasha, to push for an allegiance with eager German forces the Ottoman Empire, juggernaut of the East, officially joined the fray. Their campaign had been largely successful so far, with no small thanks to the Bloody General.

Damien's lip quirked with amusement. A lofty title for such a man as Eric Cartman, but so be it. Fear was the most powerful weapon in war, and Damien would encourage anything that fed the fear of their enemies. Cartman did that job well. Exceptionally well. And it was only that reluctant admittance that kept Damien where he was, waiting for the General in the war room of the _Colossus_. Earlier Cartman had excused himself when an alarmed looking officer practically burst into the meeting room, and almost half an hour later here Damien sat with waning patience.

"I hope the General hasn't forgotten about me," he drawled, eyes glinting dangerously. The nervous page that had delivered the message jumped and mumbled something. Damien tilted his head. "Speak up."

"Sir, I believe he's seeing to a prisoner, sir," the young man stammered.

His features contorted slightly in irritation. "A prisoner. A ship full of men can't handle one prisoner."

"Sir, I'm sorry, sir," babbled the page, "It's the Ace. The American Ace, Kyle Broflovski-"

Leaning forward, Damien's lips curled into a malevolent smile. "You captured the Arrow and I was not informed?"

The page paled. "Sir, I-I-I-"

"Take me to them," he snapped, tired of the stuttering imbecile. "I would like to meet this pilot who has managed to be such an irritating little bug." His crimson eyes flashed. "I'd like to see what kind of man he is."

…

Kyle was tied down, breathing heavily in the ringing silence. A white blindfold cut across his face, stark against the ruddy bruises lining his chapped mouth. Thick fingers curled under his jaw and Kyle snarled, thrashing until Cartman grabbed him roughly by the hair at the nape of his neck and forced him to sit still.

"You killed two of my men."

Spitting in the direction of the voice, he gasped when Cartman's fingers tightened enough to rip out strands of his hair. Another hand closed around his throat and pressed until he was wheezing. "Must be losing my touch," Kyle rasped spitefully. "It should have been four."

"Bloodthirsty, _klein löwenherz,_" said Cartman quietly, almost reverently. "I like that shade on you. My savage little monster."

"I'm not your anything," he hissed, gulping in a lungful of air when Cartman suddenly released him.

Ripping the blindfold free from green eyes, Eric stared down into fierce defiance that he thought had been lost. Kyle's skin was pale, marked by bruises and cuts. His hair was tangled and wild around his face, highlighting the exotic color of his eyes. Cartman's cock stirred and he reminded the pilot, "You're mine now... And of course a savior to those miserable wretches down below." Leaning in close, he whispered, "We're testing a new poison today. You get to decide whether it's on people, or animals." He noticed that Kyle had started shaking, and his eyes sparkled with angry unshed tears. Eric roughly dragged a thumb over Kyle's swollen lower lip, no longer afraid that the man would bite. "Think of it this way. I will fuck you whether the poison flies or not. I will fuck you fighting, I will beat you into submission and then they will die. Or," he cooed, "You could spread your legs like a good whore and give them a few more measly years to eek out a living in this wasteland." Cupping Kyle's face, he grinned. "Don't keep them waiting."

Kyle bowed his head, taking one shuddering breath before he said, "I… I'd rather give it to you than have you take it from me."

With half-lidded eyes, Cartman smiled slowly. "Smart choice. Now I've got to attend to business. You can sit here and think of my cock while I'm away," he added snidely. He turned to leave, and realized there was another person in the room.

"I thought he'd be taller."

Cartman balked, immediately snapping to attention as the Ottoman Serasker meandered into the room, his Turkish robes sweeping majestically around a lithe frame. Wisps of black hair peeked out from under a tightly wound turban, and deeply red eyes cast a cold gaze across the pilot's diminutive figure.

Kyle's attention darted between the two men. Cartman looked pinched, entire body taught as a wire. And this other man, who had come close enough to Kyle that he could smell incense in the folds of cloth adorning him, was emanating darkness so sinister that it was palpable. Drawing back as far as he could into the chair he was bound to, Kyle stopped breathing when a deceptively graceful hand ornamented with rings and gold chains moved to brush the purpling bruise along the side of his mouth. The sound of the tinkling jewelry was eerie in the silent room, tiny urgent warnings to run, to escape this man.

"Dangerous creature," Damien said. "I can feel it." He continued to run his fingers over the various bruises marking the young man's face. "I saw the bodies of the two dead men, and the wounds on the others on my way here. Very interesting technique. Not one I've seen before." Standing up straight, Damien's eyes remained on the pilot even as he addressed Cartman, "There's a pastime I've become rather fond of, one played among the peasants of the Empire in alleyways and on street corners."

He didn't dare look away from the man's face. Kyle kept staring into the strange hollowness of crimson hued eyes; dread flooding his senses with each word offered to the air like slips of curling smoke.

"Cock fighting," revealed Damien, carefully watching the alarm drop itself in a veil of pale over the pilot's countenance. "There is something to be said for it. So noble and desperate. Brutal, yet somehow inescapably human despite that it's fowl tearing each other apart in the center ring."

Eric was clenching his teeth so hard his jaw creaked. "What are you getting at?" he demanded, forgetting his station. The Serasker turned to look at him with those dead eyes.

"I want to see this little cock fight," he stated simply. "I can't imagine why he's still alive, unless you have some designs on a hostage exchange." Tilting his head in a horrifying mockery of innocent curiosity, he added, "I also can't imagine why he would be so important. To you, General Cartman."

Shifting uncomfortably, Eric muttered, "Information. Morale. If the men know we have the American Ace-"

"Yes," Damien cut in smoothly, all coils and serpentine majesty, "All the more reason he shouldn't be shut away, but paraded around for the men to see, don't you agree?" Moving back to the pilot's side, Damien rested a hand on the young man's shoulder. "Let's have him put on a show. I'm sure you'll give us a good one," he murmured, shifting his focus back to the redhead. "What do you say, Arrow? You've proven yourself in the sky, but what about on the ground?"

Livid by this point, Eric stepped forward, "He's _my_ prisoner-"

"He is the property of the Central Powers," Damien corrected, with just the barest hint of threat. "We're scheduled to land for maintenance. That will be the ideal opportunity to _introduce_ America's Ace to the men. I'll see to it that we have a proper ring built in his honor." His tone was dripping with derision, and he patted the pilot on the head like a dog. "You'll be fighting for your life, Arrow. Over and over until you eventually succumb to death."

A lick of fire sparked in Kyle's eyes and he squared his shoulders. "The sky, the ground… it doesn't make any difference," he drawled.

"I like you," Damien sneered with a laugh, though it was cold and sharp. "I hope you'll last. Last long enough and I might even enter the ring with you. I think I would like to be the one to end your life."

Rage threaded deep into Cartman's heart. He wasn't stupid. The Serasker was currently the most powerful man in the Ottoman Empire, and to defy him was egregious. But when it came to Kyle Eric's reason was forfeit. "He. Is. _Mine_. _I_ say when his life is over."

Damien didn't even bother to look at Cartman, too absorbed in the amusing play of emotions on the pilot's lovely face. "I think you are misjudging the situation," he informed the General. Red eyes finally pinned the bigger man, bleeding down into a truly sickening smile. "You are hanging by a very fine thread… _sodomite_."

Cartman froze.

"The only reason I have not ordered your execution by public stoning is that your miserable life isn't worth the fuss it would kick up from the Germans. I understand the symbolic importance of the Bloody General, despite the insignificance of his reality in you."

"You…" Eric faltered, "You have no proof!"

"Your men are already suspicious," cooed Damien, allowing himself some fun. "One of the survivors seemed to be distressed about a prisoner wearing the undershirt of a senior officer. Not to mention an interesting fact I gleaned, that the pilot is housed in _your_ quarters." Suddenly he gripped the pilot by the chin, sharp gold nail rings digging into soft flesh. Damien coyly breathed, "Although with such a pretty face… Maybe I'll make you into a woman." He brushed his fingers along the Arrow's upper thighs. "Geld you and place you in the palace harem-"

"ENOUGH," Eric roared, drawing his saber.

"What's this," Damien laughed cruelly, "Are you challenging me for his honor?" The amusement disappeared. "Tread carefully, General. My patience is growing thin."

"I won't let you take him," he snarled. "He's-"

"Yours, yes," sighed Damien. "But what you're not grasping presently is that every card in the deck is stacked against you. Don't run out your value, Cartman. We put him in the ring to fight for the entertainment of our troops." He shrugged. "If you refuse, I have you killed. But-" he held up his hand- "I will do you a favor in honor of your work as the Bloody General." Smiling crookedly, he tore the pilot's head back by his hair to bear a white throat. Then he acquiesced, "I'll give you one more night with him. After all, it might be his last night on this earth."

…

The sun was sinking when Christophe looked over the Deadlands. He'd managed to move quickly through Allied ground with the help of some old friends and plenty of favors. According to the garbled message filtered through Kip's radio, the Colossus was making a scheduled landing off the coast in order to refuel and take in supplies from the naval ships. The site would be bristling with enemy soldiers, which suited Christophe just fine. The more the merrier – he could pass unseen and search for Broflovski amidst the crowd.

It was his guess that the pilot would be under heavy guard, but that wasn't what concerned Christophe. He was far more worried about getting out once Kyle was free. There was no doubt in his mind that Broflovski was more than capable of protecting himself, but Christophe was literally diving into the hive to steal the honey. He could only a hope a plan would form by the time he found the wayward pilot.

"Need a ride, cowboy?"

Christophe turned and looked into the grinning face of a young woman, her black hair wound in a tight bun at the nape of her neck. Behind her was another woman with a long tousled blonde braid snaking over her shoulder.

"We can take you as far as the end-lines," the blonde woman added, white glinting in a matching grin.

"And why would you offer zat?" the Frenchman countered suspiciously. He eyed the two of them, sizing them up in their worn uniforms. "And what are you doing here anyway, women belong-"

"I'd watch what you're going to say next," the blonde sweetly cut him off. "We're offering you a favor here, friend."

"But why?"

The woman with black hair shrugged. "We're scheduled for patrol and unless you're just here to sightsee…" She trailed off, letting the barren ugliness of the land speak for itself. "Now then. I'm Wendy."

"I'm Bebe," the blonde chirped.

Christophe only frowned, finally delivering his name in a grudging mutter when both women just continued to stare until the Frenchman was unsettled enough to give in.

"We know who you are anyway," Bebe said. "We've seen Special Forces before. Not too often in these parts, but enough to know them when they come around."

Bristling, Christophe drawled, "Is zis what the Eastern Front has to show for itself? So idle you are scouting for hitchhikers to fill your time?"

"The French," Bebe scoffed, "Always looking a gift horse in the mouth."

Wendy was frowning. "Well in this case it's a gift _tank_. One that _would_ have carried you safely across that death-trap." She pointed at the pockmarked wasteland. "Landmines are holding our place out there. Hundreds." Her dark eyes were hard. "Special Forces or not, you're going to have to figure it out before you can think to cross or we'll be riding out anyway to pick up the pieces of what's left of you."

Threads of doubt wove a sinister image of very nasty ends. The ground below the rise had been warped by rain and was already littered with shrapnel and the carcasses of expired war machines tangled in lines of rusty barbed wire. Sporadic shacks that must have once been makeshift shelters sloped across the ground, many barely more than kindling after an obvious landmine detonation. But it wasn't that Christophe couldn't navigate his way through the field, it was the time it would take to do so. The one thing he didn't have if he expected to make the rendezvous. With a scowl fixed on his face Christophe acquiesced, "You say you have a tank zen?"

The women traded a wry look before Wendy jerked her head to the side, signaling Christophe to follow them. Grudgingly he did, looking back one last time at the desolate stretch of ground that held hundreds of hidden deathtraps. He supposed every knight needed his armor. And once the hulking mess of metal appeared as they entered the quiet camp the Frenchman's eyebrows shot up in appreciation.

"Your chariot awaits," Bebe joked, beaming with pride when Christophe placed an admiring hand on the cold side of impenetrable metal. "She might not be a looker but she's a humdinger when it gets down to business."

"And nothing's going to break her," added Wendy. "The landmines can't penetrate. We're waiting on more fuel to start clearing the field."

"And by 'clearing' you mean…?"

"We're minesweepers," Bebe chirped happily, "We blow them up to clear the way for foot soldiers."

Christophe looked skeptical, "And you have tested zis?"

Laughing, Bebe said, "By accident."

"All the drivers had taken their tanks to the Front," said Wendy, "We were left behind; Bebe and I were wire girls, connecting Morse code lines and putting radio calls through."

"Quite a promotion," Christophe wryly observed. "To tank drivers."

Wendy snorted. "We were bombed. The Bloody General-"

Christophe's eyes narrowed.

"-drove his boat over our sky and unleashed Hell. Everyone fled into the fields, and that's when we first found the mines, unfortunately." Her mouth tightened grimly.

Bebe continued, "Everybody out there stopped moving, just froze in place. They couldn't even help the wounded in case they got blown to Timbuktu."

"But we'd hidden out in this extra tank," said Wendy, fondly patting the side of the huge machine. "We'd never worked one, but we knew we had to try to get those people out before the _Colossus_ swung back around."

Grinning, Bebe flipped her braid over her shoulder. "Ever since then she's been ours. Tried and true."

Christophe gave an acknowledging grunt before climbing up the side of the tank. As he twisted the top hatch, Bebe signaled to another soldier across the muddy campground before she and Wendy followed him up.

Once inside Bebe and Wendy went to work. As the two women fell into silence, moving in a synchronized dance to wake up the cold metal, Christophe settled into a corner and let the rumble of the tank lull him into a light doze. Wendy and Bebe spoke in low tones to each other, punctuated by bursts of muffled laughter or wry snorts. The sounds blended into the noise of the tank rolling over the ground. Eyelids dropped low, Christophe watched tiny particles of dirt bounce across the cockpit floor, wondering at the feeling of riding inside the belly of an impenetrable beast. It was his first time being inside one, his missions more often calling for stealth. Though he could certainly imagine how useful a tank could be, albeit more destructive than helpful in most cases.

Suddenly he blinked. Tanks were rare on both sides of the fight, the limited number only existing within select legions of the ground forces. Obviously the Navy and the Air Force on either side had no need for tanks, planes and ships were much more relevant. But what would sea-bound ships and grounded planes be against a bulletproof fortress?

They'd be nothing. Neither would men with guns, regardless of how many there were. They'd fall like clods of dirt in front of a farmer's plow.

Smirking secretly, Christophe realized he might have just found out how he was going to get himself and Kyle out of the lion's den. His smile grew when he remembered the solitary shacks dotting the battlefield, roughly tank-sized structures if the mind stretched a bit.

"Ladies?" he offered, "You know ze story of Troy, oui?"

…

Teeth scraped over the shell of his ear, Cartman's breath hot and wet on Kyle's flesh. He lay completely still with the bigger man between his legs, weight pinning Kyle to the bed effortlessly. His wrists were bound in a familiar fashion over his head, and his slender thighs were trembling while stretched wide to accommodate Cartman's girth. Since the red-eyed man had left Kyle hadn't said a word, silenced by wariness of the sheer rage practically rolling off of the Bloody General. Suddenly Cartman had become every inch that frightening figure again – radiating power and danger. And Kyle wanted to live, so he wisely saved his fight for another day. He didn't resist as Cartman roughly threw him down onto the bed, yanking his wrists up. Kyle didn't make a sound as the General kicked his legs apart and pushed heavily between them, shoving down his uniform pants to free his thick cock.

He rutted against Kyle's thin body, his anger clouding his lust until he growled into red hair and thrust hard enough that it hurt. His nails dug into Kyle's hips, yanking his slender lower body up into his thrusts. Eric wasn't hard enough to fuck the other man. He was too humiliated and enraged that anyone – even the Serasker – would dare assert any ownership over his property. Finally sinking his teeth into Kyle's shoulder, he ground them down until the faint coppery shadow of blood awoke beneath his lips. Drawing back, mouth tinged pink with Kyle's blood; he stared down into the pilot's face. Long feminine lines were etched with fear and pain. And exhaustion. Cartman gently cradled Kyle's jaw in his palms and leaned in to bite at his lips. "You'd rather stay with me," he whispered. "You'd rather stay here with me and be mine."

"C-cartman-" Kyle faltered.

"I say when you die," Eric husked, his cock stirring to stronger life. He grabbed Kyle with hard hands and twisted him forcefully onto his stomach. Moving swiftly down the pilot's body, Cartman spread pale asscheeks and stared hungrily down at the tiny rosette nestled between rounded flesh. His fingers left bruises as he buried his face in Kyle's ass and pushed his tongue past the ring of muscle without preamble. Above Kyle released a hiss of surprise, jerking against the bed. Cartman drew back, panting, with Kyle's musky taste filling his senses. "We could have nice things," he said shakily, "I could give you nice things." All the muscles in Kyle's arms and back were taught, his breath hitching loudly when Cartman dove between his cheeks again to bite and lick at his entrance.

Kyle writhed helplessly, his body strung with adrenaline and heady pleasure. He felt sick. Cartman's tongue entered him, a slip of molten heat, again and again. His muscles spasmed, nerves tickling with sensations unlike any he'd ever felt before. "Stop," he begged, head spinning, "Please stop, Cartman." His voice was threadbare, weak and trembling as much as his body. "This – I can't, please. Stop." Instead Cartman moaned, the reverberation pushing a tremor of pleasure spiraling to Kyle's prostate. Kyle was horrified by how good it felt, confused into dizziness as Cartman's other hand pushed beneath his body to grip his hardening dick. Bucking his hips Kyle tore at the pillowcase with his teeth, panicking under a rush of heat and hedonistic desire.

Fingers replaced his mouth, digging deep enough into the redhead that he found Kyle's prostate effortlessly, pushing and massaging the nerves until Kyle was thrusting desperately into the mattress.

Voice racked with fatigue and honest horror, Kyle continued to beg Cartman to stop. The evil of his own pleasure was devastating. To this he'd much prefer the pain. "Why are you doing this?" he gasped, twisting in Cartman's grip as that hot tongue found his ball sac, lathing over the tightened skin while the fingers of one hand were still scissoring his hole and the other was rubbing his aching cock. "No, Cartman, please just hurt me… Make me bleed; hit me, cut me, but not this. God, please not this!" Tears were stinging his eyes and burning down his face. "Don't make me a part of this," he pleaded frantically. "Please!" He was flipped again by strong hands, body feeling empty just for a moment as Cartman stared down at him with an expression Kyle felt reach through him and consume him. Shaking uncontrollably, Kyle whimpered when Cartman retrieved a jar of oil and slicked up his fingers. He tried again; "Cartman, stop. This… just use me. Just fuck me-" Brown eyes sliced up and Kyle froze. The Bloody General – it wasn't Cartman any longer – was silent and cold. His plush mouth shined with saliva from eating out Kyle's ass, his fingers slicked in preparation to enter Kyle again. Swallowing down a dry throat, Kyle lowered his head back to the pillow, rolling his eyes up to the ceiling. Tears squeezed out his eyes when he clenched them shut, and he gritted his teeth when a hot mouth settled over his cock. Well-versed fingers entered him again, pushing, digging, seeking until that familiar sickening slide of undeniable pleasure rocked up his spine and sent a jolt through his flagging erection.

Eric wanted to taste Kyle's seed on his tongue. He wanted to take something from Kyle he never thought he'd get, and he knew the pilot never thought he'd give. It was a sudden all-consuming obsession to give Kyle pleasure. Kill him with it, break him. Cartman wanted the pilot to drown.

"Oh god," he whispered, thrusting up into Cartman's mouth helplessly. Thick fingers thrust in and out of him as heavy as a cock. The suction around his erection was ruthless, pulling his core straight out of him until he was straining against his bonds, fighting and pushing, seeking and yearning. And all around him the nausea, the confused shock and shame that came with his desire to cum.

Cartman pulled away completely and pinched the base of Kyle's cock, ignoring the thin keen of disappointment that followed. He looked dispassionately down at the redhead, seeing the other man completely wrecked. Strung-out on sex and forced pleasure left Kyle pale and sweaty, eyes glassy and perplexed. His wrists were rubbed raw and angry red. Leaning over Kyle, Cartman released his wrists and let them fall limply to the mattress. Watching as Kyle immediately pushed his hands over his face to breathe noisily through bruised fingers, Eric took one of Kyle's legs in his hand and shoved it up nearly to the pilot's shoulder, startling the redhead back into awareness. Thin hands scrabbled over the sheets looking for purchase, gripping until knuckles were white as the head of Cartman's cock found and crested the tight ring of muscle he'd brutally loosened.

Kyle was doubting himself, wrapped in panic as pleasure pushed up his body from Cartman's heavy cock. It had never felt like this. He couldn't escape it. And when Cartman's hand went to his erection again Kyle frantically pushed him away, pleading with the other man once again.

Looking deep into Kyle's eyes, Eric said, "I touch you or you touch yourself. Make the choice."

Biting his lips, Kyle dropped his eyes shamefully as he lowered his own hand to grip himself. He needed this control.

The word, always the same: beautiful. Kyle was beautiful. Broken, dangerous, pathetic, strong, and always breathtaking. Cartman used his free hand to wrap around the slender throat. His hips were moving faster, dragging his cock in and out of Kyle's ass in a burning rhythm as the redhead fisted himself, teeth gritted beneath eyes tightly clenched. He could feel Kyle's inner walls tightening around him deliciously soft and warm. Fucking Kyle was euphoria. The sight of him, the feeling of his body, the smell of his sweat and his fear and now his lusting. Cartman thrust deeper, careful to find that spot inside to make the redhead twist and pant. Kyle looked like he was in pain the way his body was shoved into the mattress, the way his teeth bit through the flesh of his lips, the way his hand jerked in a blur over his hardened dick, the way his free hand desperately gripped the sheets, and most of all the way the tendons of his throat pressed against Eric's palm. He tightened his grip around that slender neck, listening to the struggle of Kyle's breathing. He fucked harder into the slender body, eyes flashing between parted lips gasping for air, the painful red of Kyle's erection, and the abused hole forced to swallow his cock.

"I-I'm going to-" Kyle thrashed on the sheets, lifting his hips to meet Cartman's thrusts frenziedly as he choked under the man's grip. Cartman squeezed until Kyle's air was cut off. Green eyes rolled back in his head and black dotted his vision, the spiraling arrow of pain-pleasure cutting into him as he came violently. He shot so hard that cum spattered up his chest and a few drops landed on his chin and lips. Then Cartman's tongue was there, pushing Kyle's own seed into his mouth. The kiss was vicious, tinged with copper, and Kyle sobbed into it as he felt the stinging heat of Cartman's release flood his body.

He kept working his cock in Kyle's ass, groaning as the slick squeezed out around the base of his dick to coat the redhead's ass and thighs. Grinding down, Eric shoved his tongue deeper down Kyle's throat, pawing at his body until his fingers caught up around Kyle's wrists and he squeezed until bones creaked. Beneath him Kyle was throbbing, from the inside out, pouring off heat and shame and confusion in heady droves. And still Cartman stayed with his cock thrust deep inside Kyle's body, still impossibly hard and thick. Thin legs jerked around his sides, Kyle gasping lungfuls of air when Eric released his mouth to bite at his neck instead.

"Survive," Cartman suddenly growled, grinding his hips down in agonizing circles. "Survive long enough, and I promise I'll save you."

Kyle didn't understand, too strung out to properly hear him. He was panting wantonly, too tired, too sick, too horrified with himself to bother to listen. Cartman was just murmuring into his neck, still thrusting shallowly between his legs.

"No one can take you from me," Eric hissed. "No one."

…

To Be Continued…

…

A/N: Kyle's gonna get some time to recover, then it looks like things are going to get bloody…

**A special thank you goes out to those people that leave reviews, messages, and asks. Your encouragement is invaluable and I'm so grateful for it and you, thank you!**

-Villain


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: There are some pretty serious **violence and gore warnings **on this one. And fuck if I'm going to spoil anything... just tread extra carefully! This is no joke please don't hate meee. : /

Sorry yet again for another delay. There will be a more comprehensive explanation at the end of the final chapter as to why this story has been so inconsistently updated.

…

**Chapter 6: Dogfight**

"You can't let him do this to me," Kyle ground out, face lit with shame as he begged for his life. It had been days since he'd seen Cartman, or much of anyone besides the armed guard that brought him three square meals a day and the dispassionate physician there to ensure he didn't die or attempt suicide. The isolation left him with traitorous thoughts, threaded with desperation and plagued with the boiling shame still burning the pit of his stomach after his and Cartman's last tryst. "…C-cartman…?"

But Cartman didn't reply. He was as impassive as stone while Damien's valets stripped Kyle of his threadbare clothing and forced him into a bloodied American uniform that was far too large. The redhead recoiled, lashing out at the valets when he saw the dried stains on the uniform, the smell of blood and use pungent. But he froze when he heard the heavy click of a pistol being cocked. Damien had informed his guard to shoot the pilot in the leg if he fought back.

Curling his lips, Eric turned away, his fury clean and black.

They cinched the belt tight around Kyle's thin waist, and he looked like a child in an older brother's uniform. Pale and grim, he tried to catch Cartman's eye as an obscenely sharp blade curved along his side to herd him out of the officer's tent. He was ignored and shoved along the dusty and crowded encampment. Kyle grimaced as bleaching sunlight stabbed down into his sensitive eyes, a rush of deafening noise crashing around him like waves. The guards at his sides started yelling and shoving soldiers back when they tried to grab at Kyle, their voices angry and startlingly loud. He hissed when a hand closed around his upper arm, and turned his torso reflexively to block with his elbow. That only seemed to incense the crowed more and Kyle's eyes grew wide when the mob overwhelmed the guards and swarmed him. Even though his body complained, Kyle launched into action. The rush left little room to actually move and though bodies pushed at him there was no way anyone could maneuver enough to hurt him. Taking advantage of the cluster, Kyle used his size to twist and slam a fist directly into a man's face. Angled up into the front of his nose, the punch produced a wet crunch that was followed by a thin scream as cartilage was shoved back into the would-be attacker's skull.

A gunshot rang out and the crowd broke away from Kyle like snow shaken from a rooftop. He was left standing alone in a clearing of people, their dark eyes weathered and brimming with bloodlust. Carefully keeping them in his peripheral, Kyle slowly looked up to see the Serasker, cloaked in rich robes of red and purple.

"The American dog," he said into the uneasy silence, the coy tilt of his mouth shadowed by the empty void of his eyes. "My brothers, you seek his blood too soon. Have respect for him." Slowly Damien descended the rough steps of the dais overlooking a crude coliseumof tarp and wire. He caught the pilot in his gaze and held him there, stalking up to him until he was looking straight down into the delicate futures of that pale face. "We should savor his death."

Around them the crowd traded doubtful glances, the low rumble of dissent building until Kyle tensed into a defensive stance.

"The Serasker is right!" a soldier bellowed, stepping forward. "And I would ask to have the honor of avenging our brothers shot out of the sky by this devil."

Damien's lips quirked. "So be it," he agreed, addressing the assembled masses. "This honorable soldier of the Ottoman Empire shall slay the Arrow, Ace flyer of the Americans." As the crowd roared with approval, Damien caught the sickened pall shadowing Kyle's face. Grabbing the shorter man by the scruff of his neck, he murmured, "Do your people proud, Arrow. Try to fall with dignity." He threw the redhead to the guard, going to ascend the steps once more as the pilot was wrestled into the ring.

The clang of the heavy gate rung out and Kyle was caged inside, standing alone in the middle of the wide space. Hostile faces defiled with ugly curses filled the edges of the fence, a wall of hatred and cruelty. When his opponent approached, shirtless and corded with muscle, Kyle fought the urge to vomit. He quickly backed away, raising a small cloud of dust between his feet. The heavy uniform still carrying the bloodstains from its previous owner itched and lay uncomfortably against his skin. As the man he was to fight yelled to the crowd, Kyle hastily ripped free of the outer jacket, keeping it in his hands while the sun placed heated kisses along his shoulders.

Streamers fluttered in the breeze, movement frantic and hastened by wind as dry and dusty as the ground. Damien's eyes glinted, noting the tension eating up the pilot's frame. The man was so tightly wound that a solid strike might shatter him like a pane of glass. In complete disparity the Turkish challenger moved with a languid grace, almost strolling in zigzagging arcs towards the American, while subtly backing him into the far wall of the enclosure. Sweat in the soldier's black hair gleamed, generous waves collected back in a topknot familiar to the nomadic tribes. Eyes narrowed, Damien catalogued the man's stature and build. He saw the limberness of his hands, free of calluses. But the muscle in his arms bespoke some sort of labor. The newness of his uniform pants revealed him as a recent recruit, and Damien smirked. The strapping young man lacked the doggedness that in contrast the redhead wore like a second skin. It would be an interesting match.

Tilting his head, Damien raised his fist and commanded, "Begin!"

…

Kasim was a recruit on his first military campaign. He was so new, one soldier said, that you could still smell his mother on him. It had been only one of many taunts towards the young man. His build was more delicate, his skin still unmarked. Except for a thin scar along his cheek where one of the other men had cut him to see if he bled the same red as the rest of them. The memory made his skin itch and Kasim rubbed his knuckles against the side of his face. It was then he saw a familiar figure, one he'd only met earlier that day. Smiling beneath his kafiyyeh, Kasim sidled up to the weary looking lieutenant, whose uniform looked several sizes too small and strained under the muscles bulging over the tan man's bicep. Kasim had been looking for him after the man had scared off some of Kasim's crueler squadron mates as they'd been taunting him. Shyly he cleared his throat and asked, "You do not want to see the fight, _bayim_?"

"_Non_," the lieutenant answered, voice low and gruff.

Kasim wondered if the lieutenant was from one of the northern tribes. His accent was strange, but it didn't matter to Kasim. Mustering up courage, he feigned confidence. "I would like to try my hand at beating the American dog."

"Would you," the lieutenant mused, sharp brown eyes peering down at the younger man from between the strips of the kafiyyeh covering his face. It was hot beneath the smelly face-wrap. He wanted a cigarette.

Faltering slightly, Kasim struggled not to bow his gaze. "Yes! I… would prove myself." He glanced up. "That I am strong."

The lieutenant squinted at the crowd of people swarming around the fighting ring. "You think zat cutting into a man's flesh makes you strong?"

Deflating, Kasim's brows furrowed. "In a war… how else?"

Turning to the smaller man, the lieutenant raised a finger to draw along Kasim's scarred cheek.

Flinching away, Kasim dropped his gaze. His face burned with shame, avoiding the amber eyes fixed on him. He struggled to find words, eyes darting over the surroundings. But he paused, standing up straighter as he noticed something out of place. "…_Bayim_, do you see that?" He was looking at a ramshackle shed just outside the line of gunpowder barrels. "Don't you think it's closer than it was yesterday?"

The lieutenant didn't look.

Kasim pressed, "I swear it wasn't so close-"

"You think it gets up and walks?"

Kasim shied beneath the grating gruffness of the man's tone. Growing flustered, he reasoned, "No, I-I just thought it had been further away from base camp yesterday." Frowning, he added, "Much further." Flagging under the lieutenant's harsh look, Kasim stuttered, "I-I may be mistaken…"

Eyes drifting over the young soldier's body, the lieutenant catalogued at least twelve different ways to quickly and quietly kill him in case he told anyone else about his suspicions of the mysterious shack. Lips pursing beneath the sweaty kafiyyeh, he instead stalked away, grunting over his shoulder, "Zen let it go."

…

The first swing skimmed his cheek and even from that light contact Kyle was knocked back a good two feet. Cursing, he dodged the dirty heel of his opponent's boot, scrambling to escape the speed with which the soldier recovered to strike again. His ears rung with the voices of the crowd that gave his opponent wings and felt like to Kyle like stones hitting his back. He could feel their ire, and gritted his teeth.

"Nothing without your plane," the soldier jeered, taking his time to circle the redhead slowly. "You can't fight like a man. I'll grind you to dust and mix you into the sand."

Squinting at the heavy accent spitting words shaped like crescent moons, Kyle jumped back when the man feigned an attack. Throaty laughter prickled Kyle's spine, dredging up dormant fury that had been trampled by exhaustion. Moving both his hands in front of his stomach, he securely took hold of each sleeve of his discarded uniform shirt. The material was caked with dirt. Holding it firmly, Kyle waited with sharp eyes as the soldier bantered with the crowd, building their enthusiasm until hundreds of hands were banging against the flimsy barrier. As if drawn by a string Kyle risked a glance at the Serasker. Those crimson eyes were fixed on him, as if they hadn't moved the entire time. The man never seemed to blink. Kyle swallowed, heartbeat quickening as a slow feral smile rolled across the Serasker's treacherous mouth.

The soldier wheeled back on the American, roaring loud enough to beat the cacophony of the crowd. Pale and small, the pilot didn't react. His oddly colored eyes were flicking over major movement points on his torso that would give away the Turk's next attack. Smirking, he began to walk towards the redhead leisurely. "It won't hurt for long," he promised, teeth flashing white in a grin.

"You're right," Kyle murmured, "It won't."

From his roost Damien grinned as the pilot darted towards the soldier, moving fast. The Turk flinched into a reflexive punch, pivoting his lower body in an age-old reflex to protect his vulnerable parts. But that's exactly what the redhead had been counting on. Amusement and grudging respect filled his eyes as Damien watched the pilot catch the soldier's punch in the jacket tightly wound in his fist, like catching a flying fish in a net. Using the force of the punch against him, the American twisted the uniform jacket to entrap the Turk's arm and counter his precarious balance. The soldier went down with his hand still trapped in the uniform shirt, now getting twisted up behind his back until the pilot threw his entire body into pressing the limb at that helplessly awkward angle.

The crowd rumbled and seethed like an angry sea. Beneath him the soldier kicked, but Kyle only had to twist at the weakest point of the man's wrist to threaten broken bone, or at the very least a dislocated shoulder. His muscles were straining even to hold the bigger man down and Kyle knew any fight he faced would be more about smarts than strength. Jaw clenched, he looked up at the Serasker. Dead eyes stared back down at him and Kyle blanched, shouting up, "I will not kill him!" His declaration was lost to the crowd, but he knew that Damien understood him. Killing the man would do nothing but incense the masses further. And Kyle knew this show was about more than just some sick game the Serasker was playing. Under the angry eyes of his wartime enemies he was representing an entire nation and he would do his utmost to honor that.

"You already did," Damien shrugged, and pulled out a slender copper pistol to shoot the soldier in the back of the head.

Kyle stared down at the gory mess in shock. The muscles of the soldier's arm seizured in his grip before falling still. Blood and bits of bone and flesh spread out from what was left of the imploded skull. Kyle's entire front was red and the sickening copper stain stung his eyes and burned at the chapped cuts on his lip. Kyle was terrified. A sluggish, drugged terror that slowly crawled up the length of his body until his head was ringing.

In the silence that gripped the crowd Damien stood. His robes swept artfully around him. "Do you bow in shame to this mongrel?" The thunder that shook his voice swept the gathered people like wind across blades of grass. "Is this the strength of our people? To fall in shame before this American bathed in our nation's blood?"

Gritting his teeth, Kyle stumbled back from the corpse. The Serasker was as clever as he was ruthless. Kyle could see the swathes of crimson dripping from his body reflected in the eyes of the Turkish soldiers. Never mind that it was Damien who had pulled the trigger, the blood was on Kyle's hands.

A lanky man jumped the makeshift fence of the ring and landed in a puff of dust. His thick black beard made the uncommon gray hue of his eyes burn fiercer. The Serasker nodded to the newly claimed fighter and settled back on the dais while guards went to collect the remains of the first challenger.

Kyle analyzed the man's movements. His reach would be the most dangerous thing. By a good half foot he beat Kyle's height. Yet the bulk of muscle wasn't there to make his strikes truly dangerous as it had been with Kyle's last opponent. Wiping the sweat from his brow, Kyle decided that taking the man's legs out from under him would be the best-

The lanky man whistled, high and warbling.

Blinking, Kyle looked around. Was this some technique to confuse him? But his heart sunk when a massive creature scaled the fence in a mess of heavy limbs and gnashing teeth. The dirty white of its fur clashed with a devilishly black face, and Kyle realized he was facing what the American troops had deemed the Ottoman Hellhound. A fierce and protective dog, the Kangal fought alongside their masters on the frontlines. Kyle had heard others tell tale of their fangs and terrible claws that could tear through barbed wire. And now the legend was standing before him, great lolling tongue hanging wetly past slick yellow teeth. Intelligent eyes looked to its master for orders, taking little interest in the redhead until the lanky man pointed right at him and uttered a guttural command.

The beast seemed to grow three times its size, entire body crackling with aggression as its training took over: Attack. Kill.

Kyle's breath rattled out his mouth as the dog came at him. There was nowhere to run, nowhere to dodge. He couldn't afford to show his back, there were only the sacrifices he was going to be forced to make. Throwing his arms up, he rammed into the snapping maw and screamed through grit teeth as long fangs sunk deep into his flesh. Wrapping his other arm around the animal's head even as the powerful neck muscles lifted him off the ground to shake, Kyle stabbed his long fingers at vulnerable eyes. He clawed with true desperation, feeling the muscle of his arm separate from the bone. But he held on at the awkward, spine-wrenching angle. Wrapped around the giant dog's head, he was able to keep it from breaking their contact and secure a deeper bite. He kicked out viciously at its front legs, blood spraying in a fount from his forearm as the skin came off in sheets. Managing to lock his legs around its front knees, he bucked his hips against the force with which the dog tried to pin him. Distantly he felt the unearthly pain rip into his arm, and the sickening crush of his fingers intercepting the snapping jaws that were going for his stomach.

A closed fist hit him on the side of the head and Kyle found his mouth full of filthy fur. He'd forgotten the lanky man, now up alongside the two struggling forms. Kyle took the next punch on the curve of his spine, slamming his feet squarely into the ground and fighting the dog back, fingernails now bloody as he dug deeper into a runny eye socket. Finally the animal yelped in pain and tried to jerk away from him but Kyle held on like a leech, kicking back and grinning with bloody teeth as he heard the lanky man cry out when he hit something soft. Most likely he'd only won himself a few seconds with that misplaced kick, but it's all he would need.

Wriggling a finger into the now ruptured socket of the dog's left eye, Kyle hooked it underneath the upper cheekbone. With his mangled arm streaming rivers of blood into the sand now muddy crimson, he took advantage of the distraction to close a claw-like grip around the animal's nose, then dug in with all his might at the weakest points of spongy flesh.

The dog screamed and bit back, crunching down on Kyle's elbow, but he was beyond pain. He bared his teeth back and tore the animal's nose free with adrenaline-fueled power that defied the strips of skin and exposed muscle that flapped around his wrist. Now the animal was wheeling backwards, struggling to dislodge the man. Kyle followed it at a run, shoving it into an overextended bow that was abruptly ended by the wall of the ring. Through the gaps in the fence came fists and short knives trying to stab him. Some hit the dog instead and the beast thrashed. Kyle caught one of the blades, winning it by surprise alone, and turned it point-down into the animal's rolling eye.

Spasms shook the teeth still embedded in his elbow and Kyle wrenched away from them to let the Kangal fall. Moving the knife to his good hand, slicked with offal, Kyle turned slowly to see the lanky man with a protective hand over his groin where Kyle had managed to kick him.

"Devil," the lanky man hissed, backpedaling as Kyle lurched towards him. "Devil!"

Kyle fell to his knees.

The American looked like a burnt offering. He was covered in dark red blood, one arm nothing but a stretch of bone and shredded patches of flesh. The sand inside the ring was bathed in gore, stirring grisly puddles beneath the pilot's broken frame. Yet peering out from a face Death would cower in front of were green eyes that burned with a demonic fire. He'd crossed over, brutally dragged into madness by heinous amounts of pain and dizzying blood loss, barely held together by a fierce will to live.

Taking a careful detour around the pilot, the lanky man went to his dog. Damien watched it all from above, his face a pane of glass.

"Enough," Kyle choked, falling on his good arm to barely hold himself up. "Enough."

The crowd was utterly silent and still. Fear thickened the air, nursed by a powerful mixture of confusion and awe.

Damien pursed his lips. His fingers played over the pistol in his lap.

"Enough," Damien agreed as he raised the gun and doled out another execution without batting an eye.

…

Brigadier General Gregory was a typhoon ripping through the camp. And Nashoba was as effective at stopping him as a tissue pinwheel. He could barely keep up as the man stormed into Stan's office, slamming the door in a stunned Nashoba's face.

"Fess up, right now," Gregory snarled, filling the Colonel's tent with his ire. "What have you done with my man?"

"I believe," Nashoba interrupted coldly, shoving through the door, "That as a Special Forces Agent Christophe is not exactly under your explicit command, _sir_."

Rounding on the Choctaw, Gregory looked down his nose at him. "You are _all_ under my command you damned brat." With a curl to his lips, he addressed a grim looking Colonel Marsh, "Your boy here is rather uppity isn't he, Marsh?"

"Nashoba," Stan stressed with poorly disguised irritation, "Is a highly valuable asset to my forces." He caught the look on the General's face and sighed, "Sir."

"You listen here, my good man," Gregory fumed. "I don't want any more bollocks about 'classified missions' and whatnot." Sending a sharp glance at the Choctaw he growled, "You tell me what the bloody hell has got this camp so riled. That. Is. An. _Order_."

Later Nashoba would indulge in the hilarity of the Brigadier General's face migrating through several different shades of puce by the time Stan had haltingly confessed the entire story. In the meantime he anxiously awaited the explosion.

He wasn't disappointed.

"TREASON," Gregory thundered, slamming a fist down on the Colonel's rickety desk. "You send one of my best agents out on some suicide witch hunt after the Bloody _goddamn _General without consulting me-" he inhaled like a wind tunnel "-all to fetch some insolent little twit that went hightailing off in complete violation of _my_ express directives."

Stan was currently trying to melt into the floor.

"And you had no bloody intention of telling me," the Brigadier General spat, winded by his own rancor. Collapsing into the only other chair in the room, Gregory groaned, "Bugger me. You idiots."

"If it's any consolation," Stan said wearily, pinching the bridge of his nose, "We've been following him via wireless radio that our coder cooked up. The technology is unparalleled."

Scowling deeply as he loosened the top buttons on his starched uniform, Gregory scoffed. "Unparalleled my arse. They've got goddamn flamethrowers for their soldiers now. Don't talk to me about 'unparalleled'." Kicking open a secret compartment at the bottom of Marsh's desk, he pulled out an aged bottle of brandy. The Colonel blanched but Gregory ignored him. "Bring in this yahoo then."

Meeting Nashoba's eyes, Stan jerked his chin towards the door, offering a sympathetic expression as the harried secretary left in a huff to find Kip. The nervous coder would probably break down in fits if he had to face the Brigadier General on a rampage. Poor kid.

After poking his head into Kip's empty quarters, Nashoba figured the coder would be in with Kenny. The two had bonded over the past days. Kip moved all of his equipment into the med wing, under the hawkish watch of the head nurse. Together they tracked Christophe's weak but constant signal, and Kenny had been getting better by the day. His arm was still strapped tightly to his chest but he'd stabilized and had even been walking around. Nashoba had a sneaking suspicion that if Kenny healed faster he'd have tried something. Maybe an escape, or some idiotic – if dashing – attempt of his own to get Kyle back. Luckily, not even Kenny was that stupid.

Or was he?

Nashoba stared at the empty cot and stripped radio kit with pursed lips. The head nurse's face was currently giving the Brigadier General's a run for its money, almost dark as an eggplant with pure wrath.

"How long do you think they've been gone?" he asked cautiously, careful of the nurse's mood.

"Drordy was preparing McCormick for his sponge bath more than an hour ago," she answered darkly, "Convinced me they needed privacy. Needed to keep his _dignity_."

Nashoba winced at her tone. Something told him as soon as the nurse got her hands on Kenny his dignity wouldn't survive the encounter. Sweeping his hat off his head, Nashoba itched the base of the tight braid taming his long black hair. "Stupid _washisho_," he sighed. "Don't get yourself killed."

…

Kyle didn't want to open his eyes. He wanted to sink, melt away into nothingness until the gunmetal fragrant air of Rosie's cockpit could hold him safe and free in the sky. But the rough hand that gripped his jaw was too real to flee from.

"Kahl."

He clenched his eyes shut harder, trying to pull away.

"Wake up, _klein löwenherz_."

Kyle whimpered pathetically, struggling to escape back into sleep.

Cartman slapped him.

Gasping into wakefulness, Kyle tasted blood on his lip. Scabs reopened as he grimaced and tried to blink away the harsh light casting hazy spots across his eyes.

"You survived." Cartman lowered himself back down into the chair he'd occupied while Kyle fitfully slept.

"Did you bomb anyone?" Kyle mumbled. Narrowing his eyes, he wondered why his arm felt so strange. Head lolling on his shoulders, he glanced down at it, and screamed.

Maggots writhed over his flesh, their tiny bloated bodies stuck fast to the horrifying wound that had taken most of the skin off his arm. A tourniquet cut off blood flow above the elbow, and clots were forming under sticky gauze colored by honey-textured fluid. The fingers of his hand were blue and bent. Kyle couldn't feel them. All he felt was the bile rising in his throat. And the burning slide of vomit as he was sick over the side of the flimsy cot. Throat burning, eyes flooding with choked tears, Kyle began to shake his arm violently, scratching at the maggot-covered skin with determination borne of animalistic fear.

Shouting for aid, Cartman wrestled Kyle back down. He pressed his forearm across the redhead's throat, grimly silent as the physician finally strolled in. The man's face was apathetic, tinged with the faintest hint of detest. Lifting a straight razor from his apron, the physician took little care in shaving the maggots like infected hairs from the surface of Kyle's arm. There left behind were patches of clean pink skin, healthy clots, and spotless white bone peeking through. The muscle had been torn, and had begun to rot in the heat before the maggots did their work.

"They ate your dead flesh," the medic informed him with a smug twist to his mouth. "And cleaned what was left." He dropped layers of gauze on the low tin medical tray, along with a heavy pot of oily liquid before he kicked dirt over the pool of bile staining the ground. "Douse the wounds with this and tie them tightly. He'll live."

Cartman let the medic leave, trusting himself more than an enemy of the American to care for his wounds. First he gave the pilot water to wash his mouth, Kyle still pale and trembling from heaving an already empty stomach. The wound itself was frightening enough, some macabre parody of the living dead. While the maggots had performed their repulsive function Eric had been unable to look, understanding yet disgusted by the practice of utilizing the maggots' natural taste for death and aversion to living, healthy skin. They'd probably saved Kyle's life, eating out the infection as meticulously as any medicine. And to stop the heavy bleeding Eric had lay the tourniquet himself, afterwards pressing the sticky squares of soaked bandage over the chunky mess of Kyle's elbow. From that point down it was mincemeat.

Kyle wouldn't get to keep his arm. Eric didn't know if Kyle realized that or not. The pilot was staring down at it, expression hauntingly empty. It hung heavy in Cartman's heart; Kyle's perfection marred by someone entirely unworthy. Damned if he was going to trust the doctors here to perform the surgery. For now all they could do was the equivalent of petrifying the wound like an old growth tree turned to fossil. Then the best doctors in the German forces would amputate the pilot's arm within the safe confines of the _Colossus_.

Brushing back damp curls, Eric fed Kyle more water, watching his chapped lips take the liquid between them. Green eyes looked sleepily up at him. There wasn't anything in them except exhaustion and thirst. As if Kyle had censored the reality of his wounds.

"I didn't bomb anyone," grumbled Eric. Kyle blinked in acknowledgement, his tongue chasing the trail of water as Cartman set the glass aside to begin the final stage of preparation before Kyle's deadliest wound would be sealed until they could treat it.

Something heavy, wet, and warm was seeping into the marrow of Kyle bones that smelled strongly of myrrh. He felt it distantly, as if hosting the memory of someone else's experience. When Kyle looked he found his elbow and forearm submerged in a richly gold elixir. His entire arm wouldn't fit, but he didn't feel where the clay rim pressed. Any feeling was gone entirely, and somewhere inside panic flared. But he couldn't hold onto it. He was too tired. The scent of the oils made his head float. Curiously he watched Cartman bathe the area above the gauze with rose water, checking the tourniquet. Brown eyes were withdrawn, focused on the scrapes and teeth marks from Kyle's fight with the man and dog.

"You really want me to live."

Cartman glanced up and said flatly, "You're mine."

"So you've said," sighed Kyle. "Then it's done? I don't have any more blood to bleed."

"He made his point," Eric bit out, eyes sparking with anger.

Somehow Kyle didn't think that was the case. The fights were a painful blur. But Kyle hadn't lost like Damien predicted. Kyle had _won_. The Serasker wouldn't let that go. "What will you do if he comes for me again?"

Amber eyes narrowed. "I won't let him take you."

The two men looked at each other.

"I'm a prisoner," Kyle said quietly.

"If you choose to see it that way."

The redhead laughed bitterly. "You see it differently."

He reached out to touch Kyle's face. "I see it differently."

"But don't you understand that it's worse," reasoned Kyle. He was too tired, too resigned to fight. "You're gorged on power, still feeding the obsession you've had for me since we were kids."

Lifting Kyle's arm from the fragrant oils Cartman arranged it over the bowl so that the excess could drip down. Slowly it hardened into a malleable cast. "Let me see the scar."

"Where you _stabbed_ me," Kyle drawled. He leaned his head back, wondering at the strange heaviness settling around his arm. The shell over his skin made it look like gold. "It still hurts, you bastard."

"The first time I pierced you."

Kyle's lips curled distastefully. "Jesus Christ, Cartman." Turning stubbornly away, his forearm lightly scratched against the bowl with a grating noise. The smell was cloying and lovely. "Give me more water."

As he lifted the pitcher to the redhead's lips, Cartman had a vivid image of Kyle holding his mother's groceries with a golden arm. "Kahl," he murmured.

A gust of dust blew into the room as Damien pushed unceremoniously through the white tent flap. The warm sunny glow of the space shuddered as he strode the short distance to the pilot's bedside. He didn't spare a glance for Cartman. Grabbing the pilot, his thumb grinding into an old scar running across his collarbone, Damien said in a sickly sweet voice, "Time to go, Arrow."

Green eyes darted to Cartman, who was rising like an angry storm cloud.

"Hands _off_," he warned. When the Serasker ignored him, Eric whipped out his pistol.

Before the American traitor could cock the gun Damien flashed with his thin scimitar and cleanly sliced the muzzle off the weapon. With a swirl of dark fabric he shoved up past Cartman's arm and pressed the curved blade to the hollow of the man's throat clean and pale above the neck of his starched uniform. Damien's crimson eyes burned into Cartman's equally furious amber gaze.

"You," the Serasker purred, "Are through. I've had enough of this little obsession. It's made you obstinate, General."

Pressing with defiance into the blade even as a thin line of blood dotted beneath the steel, Cartman bared his teeth. "You _need me_."

"Not whole," Damien flirted dangerously, rocking the sword against vulnerable skin. He offered the broader man a smirk when he didn't shy from the pain. "Maybe I slice you a little and give your celebrity some authenticity." Sharp incisors glinted when he grinned. "Or I could kill you and make you a legend, hmm?"

"The _Colossus_ won't fly without me," Eric grated out through clenched teeth. "And if you think the men will listen to some savage from the East-"

"Your superiors need _me_ far more than they need you, General," Damien cooed. "Even the Bloody General isn't worth the entire Ottoman Empire. So you make a decision right now, as we stand here." The flow of blood thickened beneath the blade and fire lit within his eyes. "You tell me to kill you, General. Or you go back to the _Colossus_ and let us finish things here. The pilot is an good as dead."

Cartman looked at Kyle and saw the strain in his features, the grayish tinge to his skin that made his eyes gleam with unworldly light. He looked like a wraith cruelly ripped up from death's peaceful slumber. The sting of the Serasker's sword was intense, and Eric knew the Turk wouldn't hesitate to decapitate him. They'd find some other puppet to wear his uniform and fly his zeppelin. Closing his eyes, Cartman stepped away.

"Good to see your mind hasn't been completely infected by your sinful lust." Damien sheathed his sword. "Now leave. You are banished from these grounds and are to be confined to the _Colossus_ until further instructed."

Kyle watched as Cartman left. His broad form slid from the tent and Kyle was left with the Serasker standing over him like an uncoiled cobra ready to strike. He could almost feel those venomous fangs sinking into his flesh. Closing his eyes, he flinched at the slim hand that pressed into the bruises on his face. The remnants of his arm began to ache beneath the strange medicine and nausea swept through him again.

"Is the pain sweet, Arrow?"

"It's Kyle… And what do you want from me anyway?" Kyle asked, finally meeting crimson eyes. "What game are you playing? Just sacrifice me – what's left of me - and get it over with."

Looking thoughtful, Damien reached over to the water pitcher and poured what was left on a cloth left on the medical tray. He drew it carefully over Kyle's chest and stomach, watching the battered skin jump beneath his touch. "It's a shame he got to you first."

Conflicted by the cool water soothing his skin, Kyle only murmured, "Why do you care, you just want me dead."

"Your body is soiled," Damien sighed. He rubbed the cloth up under the pilot's chin. "He desecrated you." When no protest arose, the Serasker's eyes flicked up to find the man's face stony and cold. "You're still a dangerous creature. And I still find you interesting. Maybe more now than before, now that I've seen you fight. It's a shame you must die like a dog," he continued with a note of genuine sadness. "You would have been a handsome gift to the Sultan. Painted and pretty. I would have taken great pleasure in taming you myself."

Kyle remarked snidely, "Is that what you call it?" He shifted as the damp cloth ran down his side and hissed when it moved over bruised ribs. "Taking my manhood and… and trussing me up like some bird of paradise to- to what-"

"You're rambling," Damien noted, amusement playing through his expression as Kyle feebly twisted away from his hands drawing the cloth between the pilot's legs. "I'm not," he chuckled, "going to use you that way." Not that there was anything the American could do even if Damien had such an inclination. "No, I'm afraid I am only here as your deliverer." He looked closer at the ugly, gnarled twist of the damaged arm. "The seal will preserve the flesh beneath. I will take it as a trophy to the Sultan once we cut it from your corpse."

Kyle's already empty stomach heaved and he pitched forward. The Serasker caught him and in a devastating twist of sadism he embraced the trembling pilot and stroked his hair. The rings and delicate chains crisscrossing artfully over his hands flashed in between scarlet ringlets and despite himself Kyle curled into the Serasker's chest, breath whistling between dry lips. Soft fragrant cloth pressed his cheek. "I'm stronger than this," Kyle whispered angrily. "If… if it had been anyone else."

Damien smelled the sweat and blood in Kyle's hair. "So it's true. You and the General have a past. That is why he kept you secret." Another strike against Eric Cartman. Damien would see to it he was stripped of his station and flogged.

"He wants to keep me," Kyle murmured sleepily, lulled by the Serasker's scent and voice. His body was shutting down. He didn't have the strength. Maybe he could die here peacefully. Not in a torrent of agony and blood out in the scorching sand. "He thinks he loves me."

"Then perhaps I will give your arm to the General instead?"

Blinking sleepily, Kyle flexed the fingers of his good hand. "He left so easily."

"Is it a surprise he values his skin more than yours?"

With a grunt of effort Kyle pushed away. His dead arm lay immobile at his side. "Yes, it is." Brows furrowed in consternation as he brushed sweaty hair out of his eyes. "I never thought he'd let me go."

Damien stood. "I would venture to guess that is the least of your problems." Two men appeared at the entrance to the tent. "Come now, Arrow. It is time."

Kyle wondered who would be his killer. Damien strode in front of him, slender figure leading their tiny party through the grounds. Soldiers lined the main throughway, but Kyle ignored them, focusing instead on the glimpses of the Serasker's red shoes with every step. The two men holding him up were strong, and dwarfed him. Maybe they would be the ones to end his life. But he wasn't sure it mattered. Everything hurt. Pain had started to leech up his arm, stabbing like pincers from the void beyond the organic cast. When he stumbled the guards lifted him and carried him between them like the prisoner he was, feet dragging along the ground.

They reached the makeshift coliseum and men parted around them. Someone was already standing in the ring, his face obscured by a kafiyyeh and the mark of a lieutenant on his shoulder.

"He was very anxious for you," Damien whispered in Kyle's ear. "He put down several other men to win the chance of killing you. It's an honor to be so desired."

Nausea clenched in his stomach. Kyle squinted in the sunlight. Too bright out, hurting his eyes. And though there was sweat on his skin he felt ice cold. _Time to die_, he thought wryly. How unfair that his death would come about so uselessly, anchored to the earth. He'd thought the sky would take him, his body burned and doused like a candle. Float down to the ground as ashes. Instead he'd be mud, ground and soaked into the sand for feet to tread over until the sun eventually drank him up as vapor.

Falling to his knees when the guards deposited him in the ring Kyle wretched again, stomach coiling painfully when it couldn't deliver anything. The chrysalis covering his throbbing arm looked ugly in the sunlight. He could feel the heat eating at it and wondered if it could just melt away and reopen his veins to pump out his life like the cut tubing of a plane's engine. Licking at dry lips Kyle stared up when his final opponent started walking towards him. His killer. Squinting, he finally raised his good hand to help deflect the sun. He could no longer stand. To die on his knees, clipped of his wings.

Kyle hung his head in defeat, barely flinching when he felt the heavy hand close over the back of his neck, surely about to snap it.

Instead Kyle heard a familiar voice wash over his ears, a rush of whispers so urgent they stirred strands of hair at his temple. His head snapped up.

"Chris-"

He was slammed down so fast that the world spun and crackled painfully.

Christophe threw a hand over the redhead's mouth and held him to the ground, neatly pinning him. His dark eyes burned into Kyle's face as the crowd raged and howled around them, awakened like a lazy beast after slumber. "How do you get into so much trouble?" the Frenchman whispered, a spark of amusement dancing in his gaze before he wrapped strong fingers around the pilot's throat and squeezed. "Time to send the signal…" Hunkering down over Kyle's dilapidated figure, he pretended to choke the pilot. And like clockwork his little friend Kasim appeared outside the line of the crowd, scrambling up a post with the Central Powers flag. Christophe had told him it would impress the Serasker to be so ready for victory, but of course that was a complete lie – the flag wasn't for the Serasker.

No one heard the rumble over the noise of the crowd before it was too late.

The scream of metal as the tank thundered into the encampment was nothing compared to the fury and terror of the soldiers thrown aside – or caught beneath – its grinding treads. Someone opened fire, and soon bullets were pinging uselessly off the hull. Some men resorted to hacking at it with swords like kittens batting at a boulder.

Amidst the disarray, Christophe lifted Kyle and swung him over his shoulder, flinging the loose hang of his parka over the pilot's body. He cursed at the bony weightlessness of the man. Getting low to the ground with his face still obscured by his kafiyyeh, Christophe stuttered into a run, spinning and dodging the frantically fighting bodies all swarming the tank like a nest of angry hornets. "Hold on, Kyle," he urged as they broke from the mob into clear space. "Zis cannot win over you. We are almost-"

"Put him down," the Serasker ordered sweetly, flanked by the two huge guards. "And step away from him. I may let you live." He was blocking their way, infinitely calm amongst the chaos. The eye of the storm.

Christophe skid to a halt, eyes flashing with wary violence. "Zat is bullsheet."

"I have no quarrel with you," the Serasker shrugged, his scimitar glinting in the sun. "However you must decide in this moment if you would give your life for that half-dead creature."

There was a shuddering eruption, and even the Serasker staggered back as gunpowder barrels unleashed explosive heat after the tank had ripped into them. Fiery ashes glittered like hanging stars in the air, catching in clothing and in hair. Screams cracked and men burning alive threw themselves writhing into the sand. The stench of burning flesh made Christophe's eyes water, but he saw the grim opportunity and took it. Kyle was still covered by cloth and so the ash wouldn't burn him. Christophe knew he had to get to the tank. Amidst frantic shouts of "_Saldiri! Saldiri_!" he made for Wendy and Bebe, glad of the misunderstanding. _Saldiri _was Turkish for "attack". They must think it was a full-fledged invasion instead of one rogue operation.

Parts of men who hadn't moved fast enough cooked on the hot metal surface of the tank. Its treads were dyed crimson with blood. Isolated flames burned all over the metal flanks, caught on cloth torn free or drying stains of blood. Christophe was coughing as he staggered closer, charred bodies and hastily discarded uniforms dotting the ground. He hoped in the heavy smoke and panic no one would grab a gun and shoot at them. There was no cover. Everyone was fleeing back from the fire and the tank's deadly guns.

Knowing the metal was far too hot to touch, Christophe huddled along one of the treads, sitting beneath the smoke so that he could suck in thin streams of dirty air. The girls had bought them time, but soon the enemy would regroup and hit back hard enough to crack the tank like an egg. It was only a matter of time before planes took to the sky to shred them to pieces. But for now the smoke offered choking cover; Christophe couldn't see through it, and could only hear as more barrels from connecting tents exploded at a distance that wrought havoc through the rest of the camp.

Kyle, whose heart still beat, was slipping in and out of consciousness. He was aware of Christophe cradling him, aware of the thin smoky air bleeding through the cloth shielding him. The understanding of intense pain entered his senses like the flush of wine staining fabric. Breath hitching, he swooped down into strange spotted blackness until he felt the _plink plink_ of the threads connecting him to cognizance snap. He felt Christophe's voice humming against his ear in a stream of French. Maybe it wasn't fainting, maybe it was death. He'd embraced it already. Kyle was only glad that he wasn't alone.

The pulse in Kyle's neck was scarily faint, but Christophe couldn't spare too much attention. Swiping through the smoke as if through hanging jungle vines, the Serasker was carving himself a path. Gritting his teeth, Christophe tested the hull of the tank with the naked palm of his hand and cursed when the sharp sting of a burn left his skin red. There was no way to climb the side of the tank without suffering serious burns – and that level of pain might kill the pilot in his current state.

While Damien crept closer through the smoke his smile grew wider. The pilot was a crumpled heap next to the mysterious rescuer, both of them cowering in the shelter of the great metal beast. Above them, through the ceiling of smoke, Damien could hear the earth-jarring rumble of the squadron arriving. Relaxing, he called out, "There is no escape. Your metal box doesn't move fast enough, even if you manage to get back in it without scorching yourself."

As if on cue, the top hatch of the tank crashed open and a blonde woman came out with a heavy gun held expertly in her hands. Sweat was streaming down her face and onto her sticky uniform, and her mouth was set in a hard line. She zeroed in on the Turk and swung the heavy muzzle of the rifle up to pin him under its aim.

"Stand down," she shouted. "Or I'll shoot so many holes in you you'll be a red fountain!"

"I heard American women were supposed to be charming," Damien drawled, bemused. "You'll want to put that away now, _kiz_."

"No, I don't think I do," Bebe shot back. "Wendy," she addressed below, "Pump it!" Pivoting her torso, Bebe kept the Turk in her sights as Wendy maneuvered the giant gun on the front of the tank to point directly at the man. Clinging smoke still whipped over the ground in foul smelling ribbons.

Working quickly to not waste the distraction, Christophe was wrapping his hands in his kafiyyeh, thick brown hair drenched with sweat prickling in the sun. He moved on to Kyle, gently rolling him up in his coat so that no part of him would touch the scorching hot metal of the tank, where tiny licks of flame still burned.

"What do you really expect to happen," Damien snapped, irritated. "You run. We chase you down. We either pull you from that thing, or blow your tiny bodies to smithereens."

"To die trying is better than surrender." Bebe grinned maniacally. "It's an American thing."

Before Damien could reply, a violent gust of wind nearly knocked him off his feet. Staring upwards, he found himself face-to-belly with the _Colossus_. It swung out of the sky like some airborne titan, pushing the air and the sand outward in a rippling ring. Squinting through the flying sand, Damien barely managed to throw himself out of the way as a giant hook came crashing down. It dragged along the ground until it caught up under the tread of the tank. With a shriek the blonde woman scrambled back down into the cockpit, unable to reach the hatch before the entire tank was ripped onto its side in a wild thrash of screeching metal.

The Serasker smirked, shielding his eyes as a lone figure descended the long cable connecting the hook to the body of the Zeppelin. "Just when I was about to write you off," he murmured, pleased. "You impress in such a way, General."

His smirk faded when he realized too late that the General was going to shoot him.

Christophe didn't see the man descend the cable, and didn't see the Serasker get blown back several feet. He was frantically digging through blistering sand to create a gap large enough that his two companions could escape the tank. He'd left Kyle curled up next to the imprint of tracks in the sand. The redhead was still breathing and Christophe was just thankful for that.

Bebe scrambled safely through first, turning to take Wendy's hand to haul her through. "What in the-"

"Get down!" Wendy yanked them both out of the way as a bullet ricocheted off the tank far too close to where their heads had been. Shuffling back, she saw a dark figure wrapped in the storm of sand. For a second she thought it was the Turk - until it reached down and grabbed the bundle of cloth that was their rescued pilot and cradled him against a barrel-like chest. Low-flying planes swooped over, and Wendy could see their guns angled at the ground.

"They're waiting for his signal," Bebe said, pointing. The man holding the pilot was already walking towards the cable, his pistol stowed in his belt. "We try something they'll shred us. Christophe, what should we… Christophe?"

"Put him down!" Christophe yelled over the sustained roar of the planes and the zeppelin. His clothing flapped around him like tattered wings as he faced down the Bloody General. The Frenchman faltered when the venomous gaze of the Central Power's mightiest legend sliced over to him, blazing between a thick gray scarf and his sharp officer's hat. Kyle looked like a child in his arms.

Bebe dove back towards the tank's upturned hatch halfway buried in sand. "Has he gone bonkers?" she hissed, looking for her rifle.

The General hefted Kyle half over his shoulder, grabbing the thick cable with one hand. He stepped up onto the base of the hook.

Christophe took a hesitant step forward, eyes warily watching the circling planes above. "You think zat ze planes will really be able to distinguish between you and us? Zey shoot we all go down."

Bebe whipped up the rifle with a clack. "Christophe! I've got him!"

The nasty tilt of a smirk appeared over the gray scarf and the Bloody General flexed his fingers on the cable. "No," he said. "You don't."

Heavy bullets rained down across the sand as the planes attacked, whizzing past the ascending figures of Cartman and Kyle rising up from the ground via the cable. Within moments, the ground below was torn to shreds in a deadly firestorm.

Cartman looked upon Kyle's sleeping face, cloth snatched from his head by the wind. Holding the redhead close, Cartman laid a kiss against his forehead as the two of them disappeared back into the belly of the beast.

…

**To Be Continued…**

…

A/N: Spoilers – Bebe and Wendy are lesbian lovers.

The stuff with the maggots is actually a real medical practice.

I'm sorry this chapter was so gross. I hope there are people still reading? Only one more chapter after this – it ain't over yet Let me know what you think! /hugs

-Villain


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